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ST. NICHOLAS:

Illustrated Magazine

For Young Folks

CONDUCTED BY

MARY MAPES DODGE.

VOLUME XVIL
Part I., November, 1889, to April, 1890.

THE CENTURY CO. NEW YORK.

T. FISHER UNWIN, LONDON.

The De Vinne Press.

ST. NICHOLAS:

VOLUME XYII.

PART I.

Six Months — November, 1889, to April, 1890.

CONTENTS OF PART I. VOLUME XVIL

■ f

> Tudor Jetiks 473

PAGE

Agassiz Association, The Harlan H. BallarJ 94

Ann Lizy's Patchwork Mary E. Wllkins 44

Armadillo Hunt, An. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Walter B. Barrows 353

Autumn Revel, An. Poem. (Illustrated by O. Beck) Ida Warii,-r Van der Voort. . 176

Ballad of King Henry of Castile, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Childe (

Hassam)

Bertha's D£but. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) £lia IF. Peattic 217

Blue-eyed Mary. Verse Mary E. Wilkins 21

" Bluenose " Vendetta, A. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles) Charles G. D. Roberts 332

Boyhood of Thackeray, The. (Illustrated) Anne Thackeray Rilehie. . . 99

Boys and Girls of China, The. (Illustrated) Van Phoii Lee 362

Brownies in the Studio, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the .Author) Painter Cox 271

Buffalo-hunting. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington and C. T. Hill) .... Theodore Roosevelt 136

Bunny Stories, The. (Illustrated by Culmer Barnes) John H. Je^vett 530

By-and-by. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by R. B. Birch) Eva L. Ogden. 153

Charles. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Laura E. Richards 270

Child and the Pyramid, The. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Julian Hawthorne 14

Chinese Giant, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Ruth Dana Draper 484

Chopsticks, How to Use a Pair of. (Illustrated from photographs) Eliza Ruhamah Scidmorc . . . 535

Christmas Day', For. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) //. Butlerworth 186

Christ.mas Letter, A. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson .... 113

Christmas o.n the " Polly." Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Grace F. Coolidge 246

Christmas, The Month Before Mary V. Worstell 89

Clever Peter and the Ogress. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by \

the Author) .' \ ^""""-'"^ ^J* 358

Constant Reader, A. Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 86

Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California. (Illustrated by

R. B. Birch)

Cricket, The. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 57

Crowded Out o' Crofield. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) William O. Stoddard. . . .24S, 340,

436, 510

Crowfoot, Old Chief. (Illustrated by A. J. Goodman, from a photograph) .Julian Ralph 328

Crows' Military Drill, The. ( Illustrated by H. Sandham) Agnes p'raser Sandham 377

CusTis, George and Nellie. (Illustrated) Margaret J. Preston 395

Daisy's Calendar Daisy F. Barry ...... . . 185

Daniel Boone and the Indian. Pictures. , 534

Design for Decoration of a Window. Picture, drawn by Isabel McDougal 255

Dogs, Some Asiatic Thomas Stevens . 314

Dorothy Dot's Thanksgiving Party. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Ada M. Trotter 22

Dreams. Poem 5'. Walter Norris 151

Drop-kick, The. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles) W. T. Bull 237

Ducking of Goody Grill, The. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Alice Maude Ewell 407

Elephants, The King of the. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) C. F. Holder 527

Elf Song. Poem Samuel Minturn Peck 327

Enchanted Mesa, The. (Illustrated by W. L. Metcalf, H. M. Eaton, and \

from a photograph) \ ^^""-'" ^- ^'""'"" -°7

" Euchred ! " Picture, drawn by J. G. Francis 519

Every-day Bacteria Prof. F. D. Chester 350

February. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 337

\ C. F. Holder 3

VI CONTENTS.

PAGE

Fifteen Minutes with a Cyclone. (Illustrated by T. Moran and W. Taber) . j)/. Louise Ford 429

Fools' Waltz, The. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Tliayer Hukheson. . . . 226

For Christmas Day. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) H. Butlenmrlh 186

Friends or Foes ? A Play Elbridge S. Brooks 419

From Thebes. Picture, drawn by E. A. Cleveland Coxe 454

George and Nellie Custis. (Illustrated) Margaret J. Preston 395

Greedy. Verse Sydney Dnyre 357

Hai'PY Charity Children. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller Sprague 152

Helen Th.\yer Hutcheson. (Illustrated from a photograph) 231

Horse, A Story of a. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington) Capt. C. A. Curtis 27

How Bessie Wrote a Letter Edith G. Seran 319

How the Emperor Goes. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) M. Helen Lovett 173

How to Use a Pair of Chopsticks. (Illustrated from photographs) Eliza Ruhamah SciJinore . . 535

Hutcheson, Helen Thayer. (Illustrated from a photograph) 231

Iceberg, The Story of the. Poem. (Illustrated by T. Moran) Harriet Prescott Sfofford 129

If the Babes Were the Bards. Verse. (Illustrated by .Mbertine Randall >

Wheelan) \ ^'"'"'"^ '^''"''''" '83

" I 'LI. Wait for You. Come on ! " Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 161

Imperious Yawn, The. Verse Henry Moore 381

Intercollegiate Foot-ball in America. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles, \

H. A. Ogden, and from photographs) \^n alter Camp. . . 36, 166, 24 1, 321

In the Tenement. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Malcolm Douglas 221

Jack's Cure. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Susan Curtis RedfielJ 382

January. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 224

Jingle, A. (Illustrated by Alberline Randall Wheelan) Francis Randall 308

Jingles 258, 308, 521

Jokers of the Menagerie. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) John Russell Coryell 71

King Henry of Castile, The Ballad of. Poem. (Illustrated by Childe >

Hassam) \ ^ "'^''- ■^"'''' 473

King in Egypt, A. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . 230

King of the Elephants, The. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) C. F. Holder 527

Kittie's Best Friend. (Illustrated) M. Helen Lozett 77

Lady Jane. (Illustrated by A. C. Redwood) Mrs. C. V. Jamison 492

Last Cricket, The. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 113

Launching of a War-ship, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian O. Davidson 338

Little Alvilda. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) Hjalmar //. Boyesen 130

Little Button wood Man, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Helen P. Strong 267

Little Dutchess, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Laura E. Richards 326

Little Gnome, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) iMura E. Richards 87

March. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 405

Marjorie and her P.vpa. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch after designs by the > ,

^^jj^^^. ^ •' S ■ ' Fletcher. ... 522

May Bartlett's Stepmother. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) JVora Perry 144, 198, 301

Mistaken Scientist, The. Pictures, drawn by E. W. Kemble 353

Month Before Christmas, The Mary V. Worstcll 89

Morning Melody, A. Poem Mary Bradley 336

Mother Nature's B.\bes in the Wood E. M. Harding 450

New-fashioned Christmas, A. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Julie M. Lippmann 265

Nor.\Y and the Ark Harry Stillwell Edwards . . . 433

Off for Slumberland. Poem Caroline Erans 418

Old Chief Crowfoot. (Illustrated by A. J. Goodman, from a photograph ).y?//!<7» Ralph 328

Old Doll, An. (Illustrated) Margaret IV. Bisland 426

On a Mountain Trail. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Harry Perry Robinson 371

Osman Pasha at Bucharest. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) HeUn Thayer Hutcheson . 228

Ostrich-ranch in the United St.^tes, An. (Illustrated by W. Taber,/ , ^. ,, „.

.. , , , . .■ Anna Etchberg King. .... 261

and from photgraphs) \ " °

OVENBIRD, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. Thompson 520

Over the Wall. Poem Anna H. Branch 86

Packet of Letters, A. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author^ Oliver Herford 502

/ Hjalmar H. Boyesen l6

CONTENTS. VII

PAGE

PiCMC ON THE Stairs, A. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) 258

Pictures 86, 152, 161, 255, 275, 353, 447, 454, 504, 519, 534

Pilot-boat "Torching" by Night. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian O. Davidson 256

Poem Postponed, A. Jingle ^ IlcUn C. H'aldin 521

Poet of the Hempstead Centennial, The. (IlJ^rated by Harper Pen-
nington)

Prairie Prelude, A. Poem Ka/c M. Clcary 537

Precious Tool-chest, A Erncsl Ingdrsoll ... 505

Prince and the Brewer's Son, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Elizabeth Batch 50

Professor and the Patagonian Giant, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell). Tudor Jenks 161

Pueblo Rabbit-hunt, A. (Illustrated by W. Taber and F. S. Dellenbaugh). C/Mr/cj /". Lumntis 9

Quite a Singer. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 376

Rabbit-hunt, A Pueblo. (Illustrated by W". Taber and F. S. Dellenbaugh) , CharU-s F. Lummis 9

Race for Life, A. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) .Emma IV. Demeiitt 68

Race with .\ Wooden Shoe, A. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Frederick E. Partington .... 80

Routine of the Republic, The Edmund Alton 233

Samoa, The Story of the Great Storm at. (Illustrated by J. O. David- >

son, G. W. Edwards, and from photographs) \ ' ' ° ^

Schoolmates. Poem Alice Maude Ewell 331

Scientific Experiment, A . . . . Sophie Swett 58

Screech-owl, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. Thompson 432

Seven Little Indian Stars. Poem Sarah M. B. Piatt 406

Shadow-bird and his Shadow. Poem Sarah M. B. Piatt 335

Sir Rat. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Ilerford 65

Six Years in the Wilds of Central Africa. (Illustrated by E. W. >

Kemble, E. J. Glave, W. Taber, and Otto Bacher) \^E. J. Glave 459

Some Asiatic Dogs , Thomas Stevens 314

Song of the Snowflakes. Poem John P'ance Cheney 309

.Starfish, A. Verse Caroline Evans 509

Story of a Horse, A. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington) Capt. C. A. Curtis 27

Story of the Great Storm at Samoa, The. (Illustrated by J. O. David- \

son, G. W. Edwards, and from photographs) \ •^'''"' ^' ^"""'"ff 283

Story of the Iceberg, The. Poem. (Illustrated by T. Moran) Harriet Prescott Spofford . . . . 129

Thackeray, The Boyhood of. (Illustrated)' Anne Thackeray Ritchie. . . 99

" The Idea of Calling This Spring ! " Picture, drawn by W. Taber .... 504

"Thereby Hangs a Tail." (Illustrated by the Author) Harper Pennington 448

"There once w.« a Man with a Sneeze." Jingle. (Illustrated by R. \

B. Birch) \ 258

Through the Back Ages. First Paper Teresa C. Crofton 490

To-day in a Garden. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hutcheson. . . . 225

Toddling Island. Poem Edith M. Thomas 352

Touch of Nature, A. Verse Anna F. Burnham 363

Tracked by a Panther. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Charles C. D. Roberts 213

Two Ways of Having a Good Time Frances E. Willard 348

Valentine for Allis, A. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . 313

Visit to John's Camp, A. (Illustrated by the Author) A/ary Hallock Foote 479

Wf.ll-filled Chimney, A. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Mabel Loomis Todd 222

White and the Red, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Alice Maude Eiocll 114

Why Corn Pops. (Illustrated by the Author) Harry A. Doty 74

Winter Apples. Poem - .Hattie IVhilney 76

Winter Costumes. (Illustrated by the Designer) Rose Mueller Sprague 446

••r ^ „ . ,,., ,, S Mark Twain and }

Wonderful Pair of Slippers, A. (Illustrated) i fi ' r r r / ( 3°9

Yule-log's Song, The. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Harriet Prescott Spofford. . . 195

Frontispieces.

" In Full Cry," by R. B. Birch, facing Title-page of Volume — " William Makepeace Thackeray," from a bust
by J. Devile, page 98 — " Ready for a New Year," by F. French, page 194 — "The Adler Plunging Toward the

VIII CONTENTS.

PAGE

Reef," by J. O. Davidson, page 2S2 — " On a Mountain Trail," by W. Taber, page 370 — " A Night on the Congo,"
by E. W. Kemble, page 45S.

DEPARTMENTS.
Plays and Music.

For Christmas Day. (Illustrated) H. Butterworlh 186

Friends or Foes ? Elbridge S. Brooks 4:9

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.)

Introduction — Jack's Italian Cousin — The Knowing Woodpecker — The Frigate-bird — That Bicycle Path —
Red Schoolhouse Queries — A Veteran Rose-bush — A Nebraska Show (illustrated), 84; Introduction — The
Old Year and the New — Stones for Fuel — A City Wanted? — Those Big Pumpkins — A Mississippi Doll —
The Hildesheim Rose-bush — He Caught a Tartar — Looking Back ^ Excited Brownies (picture), 274 ; Intro-
duction— The Carpenter Bee — Is the Panther Cowardly? — Why Not Try ? — Rude Courtesy — A Roman
Feast — How a Boy was Taught to Turn Out his Toes^ Blooming, in Latin — A Sprig that Tied Itself Into
a Knot (illustrated), 360; Introduction — The Frigate-bird — A City Wanted, 538.

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 92, 188, 276, 364, 452, 540

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 95, 191, 279, 367, 455, 543

Editorial Notes 92, 188, 364

IN FULL CRY.

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XVII.

NOVEMBER, 1889.

No. I.

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN

CALIFORNIA.

Bv C. F. Holder.

; I write, a hound,
faithful and true, is
looking up into my
face, her long slen-
der muzzle resting
on m)' arm, her
eyes beaming with
intelligence. Her
name is " Mouse,"
and she is a gre\-
hound known to
many readers of
St. Nicholas in
the San Gabriel
Valley, in South-
ern California. She
is blinking, puffing out her lips, whining, in
fact, laughing and talking after her fashion ;
and probably this is what she is trying to say :
" I am a greyhound. I can outrun any hare in
Pasadena, and when I was younger and not so
heavy I could jiuiip up behind my master on
the horse when the grass and flowers were tall,
and so look around for a jack-rabbit."

Mouse does not mention that the horse de-
cidedly objected to her sharp claws, sometimes
bucking to throw her oft", and thus has often made

READY FOR

it very uncomfortable for her master. She has
just taken her head from my arm, offended per-
haps at this breach of confidence, so I must
continue the storj' without further comment
from her.

Mouse is but one of a number of dogs that
constitute the pack of the Valley Hunt Club of
Pasadena, Southern California. Most are grey-
hounds, but there are a few of the fine stag-
hounds that the famous Landseer loved to paint.
Some are mouse-colored, like Mouse herself;
others a tawny hue ; others again mouse and
white. And in the field together they present a
fine appearance — long, slender forms, delicate
limbs, powerful muscles, rat-like tails, deep chests,
[lointed muzzles, and feet like springy cushions.
They are quaintly described in the old lines :

" Headed like a snake.
Necked like a drake,
Backed like a beam,
Sided like a bream.
Tailed like a rat.
And footed like a cat."

\\'hen iireparing for an outing, Mouse and
Uinah (the latter being her baby, though taller
than the mother) well know what is to come.
When riding-crop, gloves, saddle, and bridle

AH rights reserved.

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

[Nov.

appear, they become intensely excited, and in- colored, and one is jet-black. Each a buncli of
sist upon holding my gloves or the crop, and, springs and nerves, a noble group they make :

when I mount, leap up against the horse with
every expression of delight. As we ride out of
the orange grove, it is a wild and delicious
morning, such as one can find, in February,
only in Southern California. Hills, fields, and
meadows are green, roses are on every side, or-

Dinah, Silk, Rayraon, Mouse, Fleet, Eclipse, and
many more.

The hunt is made up of nearly one hundred
ladies and gentlemen, lovers of riding and dogs.
Thirty or more are on horseback, with invited
guests from all over the county, and the remain-

anges ghsten on their dark-green trees, the air der in coaches and carriages, who follow the

is rich with tloral odors and filled with the song
of birds. Snow is gleaming on the big peaks
of the Sierra Madres: it is winter there, over
the tops of the orange trees, but summer down
here in the valley. No wonder the dogs are
delighted and the horses need the curb. Ladies
and gentlemen appear, coming out of side streets
and bound for the "meet." followed by coaches
with merry riders, all headed for the mesa at
the foot of the Sierra Madre range. Now the
silvery notes of a horn are borne melodiously
on the wind, and out from the shadow of the
eucalyptus grove comes the pack of hounds
from San Marino, one of the beautiful homes
in the San Gabriel ; a few moments later the

** THE HOIND COtXD JUMP I'PON THE HORSE, .\ND SO LOOK

hunt is together on a lofty hill overlooking the
surrounding countn,-. Young folks are patting
and admiring the dogs ; and noble fellows these
dogs are. .-Vmong them are some great tawny
leonine creatures, brought from Australia, where
tliey hunted the kangaroo; others are mouse-

hunt in this way and at noon meet the riders
at breakfast in some shaded nook. The horn
sounds gleefully. The great, high-pointed Mex-
ican saddles, which the gentlemen use, are looked
after. Horses champ their musical bits, eager
to be off, and finally, at the word, the cavalcade
winds slowly down the hill, spreading out over
the mesa — a gently rising tract, the slope of
the mountains, ]5lanted with grape, orange, and
olive, with intervening spaces of very low brush.
Two miles or less away, rise the Sierra Madres
like a huge stone wall, with peaks from four thou-
sand to eleven thousand feet high ; and along
their base the hunt proceeds. A few feet in ad-
vance, mounted on a fiery bronco, is the master
of the hounds with his
silver horn. The dogs
separate and move slow-
ly ahead, wading now
through banks of golden
poppies, wild heliotrope,
and brown-backed violets.
Greyhounds do not hunt
by scent, as foxhounds
do, but by sight alone;
so, every now and then
they stop to look about,
all the while keeping a
keen eye ahead.

Suddenly there is a
shout, and horses and
dogs are away. From
under the very nose of
Mouse a curious appari-

AROITND FOR A JACK-RABBIT." • ■ a c^

tion spnngs up — a nutty
object of grayish tints. It is the jack-rabbit !
For an instant he stands astonished, wondering
what it is all about, then dashes away like a
rocket and is followed by the field. Nearly all
the dogs see him : while those that do not, fol-
low the others. The horses seem to understand

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

the shout and in a moment are off in a wild
race over the mesa, beating down the flowers
and throwing clods of earth behind them.

The "Jack," true to his instincts, makes for
the low brush in a washout. He seems a streak
of light disappearing and reappearing here and
there. The dogs are doing their best, working
like machines. Watch
their wonderful running !
Even at the terrific pace,
with ditches, and holes
dug by gophers, badgers,
or owls to look out for,
the action of the beauti-
ful dogs attracts our at-
tention. They sweep on
hke the wind — a kaleido-
scopic effect of grays and
yellows, passing and re-
passing. Now Silk leads,
then in turn the blue dog
is ahead. See ! Mouse
is in the air. Losing
sight of the game, she
leaps bodily three feet
upward o\er the brush,
looks quickly around,
catches sight of the flee-
ing form, and is away
again. The speed is mar-
velous ! No race-horse

great run. Hunters give out ; one or two dogs
are fagged; but over the green fields and down
toward the city goes the main body of the hunt.
The little fellow on the pony has become dis-
couraged. The pony is breathing hard and his
brave rider's yellow locks have evidently been
in contact with the pin-clover.

1^^

■Hf.i

m.^^.

•the dog inserts its long nose beneath the hare, and tosses him into the air."

can keep up with a thoroughbred racing grey-
hound, yet the field is doing bravely. One Kttle
boy, though far behind, follows pluckily, his
short-legged pony struggling sturdily through a
plowed field.

The hare has dashed across the washout and
up a large vine)'ard, around and down a well-
known road. How they go 1 Four, six, ten
horses all bunched, and running like the wind —
a wild, melodious jangle of hoofs, spurs, and bit-
chains. Up go the dogs suddenly. "Jump!"
cries the Master of the Hounds warningly,
turning in his saddle. The hare has stopped
abrupdy at the edge of a dry ditch and turned at
a sharp angle. Some of the dogs go over and
sweep around in great curves, while others break
off on both sides and are soon following the
game over the back track. A noble chase it is 1
Everything favors the hare, and he is making a

But courage ! what is this ? A shout from
below, and he sees the Jack, with ears flat, — a
signal of distress, — coming up the slope ; the
dogs have turned him again. Off the young rider
goes over the field, side by side with hare and
hounds. Soon a big mouse-colored dog darts
ahead, overtakes the hare, and kills him in-
stantly. Often the dog inserts its long nose
beneath the hare, and tosses him into the air. A
moment later, the entire field is about the catch,
and the long ears and diminutive brush of this
farmers' pest decorate the hat of the first lady in
at the finish.

Panting dogs and horses and flushed riders are
grouped about ; owners making excuses for pet
dogs, and all agreeing that the hare was a most
extraordinary old fellow, wily and conceited.
He must have girdled many peach and cherry
trees in his time, and no one mourns his fate.

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

Now the run is discussed, and its good points
dilated upon ; favorite horses are petted, and
young men svith suspicious grass stains on
their coats and trousers are ridiculed. Now-
one may see a thirsty dog drinking from a can-
teen which one of the huntsmen has unslung,
while other dogs await their turn ; others again
are lying on the cool grass, panting like steam-
engines, yet very proud of their work. Half an
hour or more is given for rest, then dogs, horses,
and riders are ready for another run, and per-
haps two miles of delightful country is gone
over before another hare is seen. This time he
runs for the mountains, and after carrying the
hunt a mile or more up the slojie, dashes into
the big canon and is away, while the disap-
pointed dogs and riders join the coaches and
carriages at the hunt breakfast, spread on the
slope among the wild flowers; and here, looking
down on the lovely valley and the Pacific Ocean
thirty miles away, the day's sport ends.

Such is real " hare and hounds " in Southern
California — an insiiiriting sport, as the natural
instincts of the greyhounds are given full i)lay,
and the hare has every advantage, and can only
be caught if faithfully followed by riding at a
pace which, for speed and excitement, is never
equaled, I venture to say, in the Eastern States.

The greyhound is becoming a popular-dog in
America, and coursing clubs are being formed
throughout the country, dogs being imported at
great expense. In certain regions of Califor-
nia the hare exists in myriads, and the ranchers
keep the greyhounds to run them off", so it is nat-
ural that Californians should believe that they
have some of the fastest dogs in the country.
How fast can they run ? A good greyhound
has been known to run four miles in twelve
minutes. "Silk" has caught a hare within one
hundred and fifty feet of the start, and as for
" Mouse," now fat and heavy, I have run the
fastest horse I could find against her, and she
was always just ahead, looking back as if to
say, " Why don't you come ? " The pace of
the dogs is illustrated by the fact that two of
them when running in a vineyard came into col-
lision; light and slender as the animals were,
one dog's neck was broken and the other hound
was seriously injured.

Coursing is by no means a new sport. Not

only is it an old English custom, but even in
the ancient carvings of Thebes we find the
greyhound. Among the ancients, chasing the
hare with these dogs was considered a noble
sport, for the greyhound has an aristocratic
mien, and is the type of refinement and cul-
ture among dogs. True coursing differs ma-
terially from the methods of the hunt described,

>4i

GREYHOUNDS DRINKING FROM A CANTEEN AFTER THE RUN.

and often degenerates into a sport carried on
simply for gain. It was first organized as a
sport by Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, in the time
of Elizabeth, and the old rules are to some ex-
tent followed in England to-day. In these, the
various efforts of the dogs in turning the hare
count, and numbers of dogs contest, one with
another, to a finish. In America, coursing clubs
rarely, if ever, run the dogs in narrow inclosures,
as it is thought unsportsmanlike not to give the
hare every advantage. Certainly, such is the
spirit of the sport in Southern California.

The hare runs as fast as the dogs, but as he
lacks their endurance he takes them up slopes
and over rough country, displaying great cun-
ning. One hare, which I have chased a number
of times, invariably ran in a wide circle, finally
leading the dogs among the rocks and escaping

COURSING WITH GREYHOUNDS I.\ SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

in a thick grove. This Httle animal is indebted
to me for much exercise, and I have no doubt
he enjoyed the running. The hare being smaller
and lighter can turn more quickly, and the best
dog is the one that can most adroitly meet these
quick changes of direction. The pack is rushing
along when the hare suddenly turns at a right
angle ; poor dogs overrun and take a wide turn,
and before they can recover, the hare is far away.
Still, a good dog will lose but little. Once my
dog had almost caught a hare, when the cun-
ning animal darted to a tree and began to run
around it in a circle, while I stopped and looked
on. Mouse could not make the turns so (juickly,
and apparently soon became dizzy, for, as the
hare ran off, she came to me very much embar-
rassed at ni)- laughter. Another time I saw a
Jack turn suddenly, dodge Mouse's snap at
him, and dart between her legs and away.

Master M'Grath, the famous dog of Lord
Lurgan, was for many years the fastest dog in
the world, but in making comparisons it should
be remembered that the English hare is not so
swift a runner as our Western " jack-rabbit,"
or hare.

The greyhound, running by sight alone, shows
remarkable intelligence in following the game,
leaping into the air, as we have seen, looking
sharply about, and using its intelligence in a mar-
velous way. When a hare is caught, he is killed

instantly and tossed into the air, the other dogs
recognizing the winner's rights and rarely mak-
ing an attempt to touch the game after the death.

Besides being shapely and beautiful, the grey-
hound has both courage and affection. It will
run down a deer or wolf as quickly as a hare,
and is ferocious in its anger -with a large foe.
My dogs are remarkably affectionate and in-
telHgent, extremely sensitive to kindness or
rebuke. The moment the house is opened in
the morning. Mouse, if not forbidden, rushes
upstairs, pushes open my door, and greets me
as if we had been separated for months. Then
she will dart into my dressing-room and reappear
with a shoe, or a leggin, if she can find it, and
jjresent it to me, wagging her tail and saying
])lainly, " Come, it 's time to be up ; a fine day
for a run ! "

No charge of cruelty can be brought against
coursing where the animal is faithfully followed.
In shooting rabbits and hares they will often
escape badly wounded, but death by the hounds
is instantaneous.

The death of the hare is not considered an
important feature, the pleasure being derived
from watching the movements of the dogs, their
magnificent bursts of speed, the turns and stops,
their strategy in a hundred ways, and especially
from the enjoyment of riding over the finest
winter country in the world.

«%?#>/. , ^.

CUSSING AGAINST SPEED.

A PUEBLO RABBIT-HUNT.

By C. F. Lummis.

It is curious how much more we hear of the
marvelous customs and strange peoples of other
lands than of those still to be found in our own
great nation. Almost every schoolboy, for in-
stance, knows of the Australian boomerang-
throwers ; but very few people in the East are
aware that -within the limits of the United States,
in the portion longest inhabited by Caucasians,
we have a race of ten thousand aborigines who
are practically boomerang-throv/ers. It is true
that they do not achieve the wonderful parabolas
and curves of the Australians; and, for that
matter, we are learning that many of the astound-
ing tales told of the Australian winged club are
mere fiction. It is true, however, that while the
Bushmen can not so throw the boomerang that
it will kill an animal and then return to the
thrower, they can make it return from a sportive
throw in the air; and that they can impart to
it, even in a murderous flight, gyrations which
seem quite as remarkable as did the curving of a
base-ball when that " art " was first discovered.

The Pueblo Indians, who are our American
boomerang-throwers, attempt no such subdeties.
Their clubs are of boomerang shape, and can not
be excelled in deadly accuracy and force by the
Australian weapon; but they are thrown only
to kill, and then to lie by the victim till picked
up. Even without the " return-ball " feature, the
Vol. XVII.— 2. s

Pueblo club-throwing is the most wonderful ex-
hibition of marksmanship and skill within my
experience — and that includes all kinds of hunt-
ing for all lands of game on this continent. Under
the circumstances in which these clubs are used,
rifles, never so skillfully handled, could not be
more effective.

The Pueblos are a peculiar people. Quiet,
friendly, intelligent, industrious farmers, they
dwell in quaint villages of neat and comfortable
adobes, which are a never-failing wonder to the
intelligent traveler in New Mexico. Their primi-
tive weapons, of course, gave place long ago to
modem fire-arms. All have good rifles and six-
shooters, usually of the best American makes,
and are expert in the use of them. But there is
one branch of the chase for which the guns are
left at home — and that is the rabbit-drive. The
outfit of each of the throng of hunters out for
a rabbit-hunt consists merely of three elbow-
crooked clubs.

When that forgotten hero, Alvar Nuiiez Cabeza
de Vaca, beside whose privations and wander-
ings those of all other explorers seem petty,
first set foot in the interior of the country now
called the United States, more than three and a
half centuries ago, he found the Pueblos already
using their boomerangs. Returning to Spain
after his unparalleled journey of nine years on

A PUEBLO RABBIT-HUNT.

(Nov.

foot through an unknown world, Vaca wrote in
his journal, about 1539 :

"These Indians were armed with clubs which
they threw with astonishing precision, and killed
with them more hares than they could consume.
There were hares in great abundance. When
one was seen, the Indians would surround and
attack him with their clubs, driving him from
one to another till he was killed."

Two varieties of rabbits are still wonderfully
abundant in New Mexico. Many are shot in the
winter by the Pueblos, casually, but rabbit hunt-
ing in earnest is confined to the w^arm months,
generally beginning in May.

I had lived a long time in the pueblo of Isleta
before the twelve hundred Indians who are "my
friends and fellow-citizens " decided upon a rab-
bit-drive. We had had dances, — strange in sig-
nificance as in performance, — superb foot-races
and horse-races and other diversions on the
holidays of the saints ; but no hunting. One
day, however, I saw a boy digging a root which
he whittled into significant shape ; and later in
the afternoon wrinkled Lorenzo, my next-door
neighbor, left his burro and his ponderous irri-
gatmg-hoe outside the door, and stepped into
my little adobe room with an air of unusual im-
portance. He seated himself slowly, reached for
my tobacco and a corn-husk, and rolled a ciga-
rette with great deliberation ; but all the time
I could see that he was swelling with important
news.

" Que hay, compadre ?"* \ asked at last, pass-
ing him a match.

" Good news ! Perhaps, to-morrow w-e hunt
rabbits. There are many on the llano toward
the Hill of the Wind. This evening you will
know, if you hear the lombe and the crier."

Sure enough, just before the sun went do^^•n
behind the sacred crater, the muflled ^'■pom!
pom!" of the big drum floated across the plaza
to me : and soon the Isleta Daily Herald, as I
might call him, — a tall, deep-chested Pueblo
with a thunderous voice, — was circulating the
news. He stalked solemnly through the un-
certain streets, his great voice rolling out now
and then in sonorous syllables which might
have been distinguished at half a mile. A
convenient newspaper, truly, for a population
which does not read ! The governor ordered,
* What is it, friend ? t The mesa of

he said, a great hunt to-morrow. After mass,
all those who were to hunt must meet at the
top of the mal pais iiiesa,\ west of the gardens.
And Francisco Duran had been chosen Capitaii
of the hunt.

At 10 o'clock next morning Juan Rey brought
me the very laziest horse in the world. Old
Lorenzo was already astride his pinto burro, with
three clubs lashed behind the dumpy saddle, and
in his hand the customary short stick wherewith
to guide Flojo by whacks on both sides of the
neck — for burros are not trained to bridles.

We poked across the level river-bottom, wound
through the beautiful gardens and orchards,
splashed across the roily irrigating-ditches, and
at last, after a short, sharp " tug," stood upon the
top of the mesa, which with its black lava clifts
hems the valley on the west. We were early,
but the arrival of a boy with a spade — to be
used in evicting such rabbits as might seek their
burrows — enabled us to beguile the hot hour of
waiting by digging and eating an aromatic root.

Presently the hunters came swarming over
the huge yellow sand-hill to the south, and
rode toward us in a shifting patch of color the
units of which danced, revolved, and mingled
and fell apart like the gay flakes of a kaleido-
scope. There were a hundred and fifty of
them, from white-headed men of ninety to
supple boys of twelve. Their white, flapping
calzoiidllos,\ red print shirts, maroon leggins
and moccasins, with the various hues of their
animals, made a pretty picture against the
somber background. Most of them rode their
small but tireless ponies — descended, as are
all the "native" horses of the plains, from the
matchless Arab steeds brought from Spain by the
Cotiquistadores. A few were perched upon solemn
burros ; and a dozen ambitious young men were
afoot. Only three besides myself carried fire-
arms. Just as the crowd neared us, a big jack-
rabbit leaped up fi-om his nap behind a tiny sage-
bush, and came loping away toward the cliff".
The clubs had not yet be.en unlashed from the
saddles, but handsome Pablo's sLx-shooter rang
out, and the " American kangaroo," whirling
half a dozen somersaults from his own inertia,
lay motionless.

Five minutes later, we were all huddled to-
gether on the edge of the clifl", facing to the brown
the bad land. % Trousers.

A PUEBLO RABBIT-HUNT.

I 1

rolling uplands westward. In front was the with-
ered capitally consulting with the other old men.
Then a few grandsires dismounted and squatted
upon the ground ; the captain called out a brief
command in Tegua, and off we went loping in
two files, making a huge V, whose sides grew
longer and farther apart as the old men at the
angle grew smaller and smaller behind us. At
every hundred yards or so, the rear man of each
file dropped out of the procession and sat wait-
ing, his horse's head facing the interior of the V.

When we had ridden a mile and a half, the
foremost men of the opposite file were nearly as
far from us. We could barely see them against
the side of a long swell. Then a faint shrill call
from the captain floated across to us, and we
began to bend our arm of the V inward, the
others doing the same, till at last the ends of
the two arms met, and instead of a V we had
an irregular O, two miles in its longest diameter,
and marked out on the plain by the dot-like
sentinels.

Now sharp eyes could detect that, the o\al
was beginning to shrink inward from the other
end. The old men were walking toward us ;
and one after another the sentinels left their posts
and began to move forward and inward. Sharp
and shrill their " Hi !-i-i ! " ran along the con-
tracting circle. Some of the hunters were still
mounted, some led their horses by the lariat, and
some turned them loose to follow at will. Sud-
denly there was a babel of shouts away down
the line. We who were waiting patiently on our
little rise at the head of the " surround," saw a
sudden scurrying at a point in the circle a quar-
ter of a mile away. The excitement ran along
the line toward us as waves run along a rope
when an end is shaken. One after another we
saw sentinels dashing forward, \\ith uplifted arms.

" Alll viene! "* called Lorenzo to me, leaping
from Flojo and running forward with two clubs
grasped in his left hand, and one brandished
aloft in the right. The third man to the left
doubled himself like a jack-knife with the effort
which sent his c\v^ ssh-shsh-ing 'Cnxow^ the air;
but the long-eared fugitive had seen him, and
floundered twenty feet aside in the nick of time.
Old Lorenzo's arm had been " feinting " back
and forth as he ran ; and now, on a sudden, the
curved missile sprang out through the air, rose,

• There

settled again, and went skimming along within
a yard of the ground — a real " daisy-cutter," as
a ball-player would have called it. The dis-
tance was full fifty )-ards, and the rabbit was
going faster than any dog on earth, save the
fleetest greyhound, could run. It would have
been an extraordinary shot with a rifle. I was
opening my mouth to say, " Too far, com-
padre!" — but before the three words could
tumble from my tongue, there was a little thud,
a shrill squeal from out a flurry of dust, and
seventy-year old Lorenzo was bounding for-
ward like a boy, only to return, a moment
later, with a big jack, which he proudly lashed
behind his saddle. The club had hit the rab-
bit in the side, and had torn him nearly in two.

In a few minutes the first round was over, with
a net result of only three rabbits, and we were
all huddled together again in a little council of
war. Then the white-headed chief stepped out
in front ; and those who had hats removed them,
and all listened reverently while his still resonant
voice rose in an earnest prayer to the god of the
chase to — send us more rabbits ! The old men
took from secret recesses the quaint little hunt-
ing-fetich — a stone image of the coyote, most
successful of hunters — and did it reverence.

^^ Hai-ko.'" shouted the captain at last, and
oft" went the divergent lines again, over the ridge
and down the gentle ten-mile slope toward the
foot of the Hill of the Wind. At the head of the
loping horses of each file ran the boys, tireless
and agile as young deer; and they kept their
place during the seven hours of the hunt. The
old men sat as usual in a row, while the long
human line ran out on either side, tying a senti-
nel knot in itself at every few rods. The ground
was now more favorable. The sage and cha-
parro were taller and more abundant, and where
the shelter was so good there were sure to be
rabbits. There is a peculiar fascination in watch-
ing those long arms as they reach out for the
"surrounds." When I have a good horse I al-
ways seek an elevation whence to take in the
whole inspiring scene, and then gallop back to
the cordon in time to be "in at the death"; but
to-day I had to be content if I could keep Bayo
in the procession at all. But even from the level
it was a gallant sight, — that long array of far-
off centaurs skirting the plain, unmistakably
he comes !

A PUEBLO RABBIT-HUNT.

[Nov.

Indian in every motion, the free rise and fall of
the bronco lope, distinguishable even when the
figures had dwindled to wee specks on the hori-
zon; and before and beside me swart faces and
stalwart forms, sweeping on in the whirlwind of
our hoof-beats.

The second " surround " was much larger than
the first, the sentinels having been placed at
greater intervals. Just as the ends of the three-
mile circle came together, a gaunt jack sprang from
the earth at our very feet, and dashed through
the line before the hunters could even grasp
their clubs. Ambrosio, a young Apollo in bronze,
wheeled his big gray like a flash, and dashed in
pursuit — so quickly, indeed, that I had to throw
my gun in the air to avoid giving him a dose of
shot intended for the rabbit; whereupon the
waggish old ex-governor, Vicente, called out to
me : " Cuidado .'* Tiiis is not to hunt Cristianos,
but rabbits ! "

Ambrosio's mount was one of the fleetest in
the pueblo, victor in many a hard-fought gallo
race; and now he went thundering down the
plain, devouring distance with mighty leaps, and
plainly glorying in the mad race as much as did
his rider. Ambrosio sat like a carven statue, save
that the club poised in his right hand waved to
and fro tentatively, and his long jet hair streamed
back ui)on the wind. Todillo had found a foe-
man worthy of his hoofs. Grandly as his sinewy
legs launched him across the llano, away ahead
gleamed that strange animate streak of gray-on-
white, whose wonderful " pats " seemed never to
touch the ground. And when the thunderous
pursuer was gaining, and I could see — for /
was chasing not the rabbit but the sight — that
Ambrosio drew back his arm, there came a mar-
velous flash to the left, and there was the jack,
flying at right angles to his course of an instant
before, and now broadside toward us; I say
" flying," for so it seemed. The eye could
scarcely be convinced that that astounding ap-
parition sailing along above the dwarfed brush
was really a quadruped, forced to gather mo-
mentum fi-om mother earth like the rest of us.
It appeared rather some great hawk, skimming
close to the ground in chase of its scurrying
prey. Tr)' as I would, my eyes refused to real-
ize that that motion was not flight but a series
of incredible bounds.

There is none of this fascinating illusion about
the ordinary run of the jack-rabbit; and yet,
following one in the snow, when he had no more
pressing pursuer than myself on foot, I have
measured a jump of twenty-two feet I What one
can do when pressed to his utmost, I have never
been able to decide definitely ; but it is much
more than that.

Had Todillo been unused to the sport, the
race would have ended then and there ; but he
knew rabbits as well as did his master. If he
could not match — and no other animal ever
did match — the supreme grace and agility with
which his provoking little rival had doubled on
the course, the tremendous convulsion of strength
with which he swerved and followed was hardly
less admirable. It seemed as if the efibrt must
have broken him in twain.

Again the tall pursuer was gaining on the
pursued. Fifty feet — forty-eight — forty-five —
and .*\mbrosio rose high in his stirrups, his long
arm flashed through the air, and a dark streak
.shot out 80 swifdy that for an instant the horse
seemed to have stopped, so easily it outsped
him. And in the same motion, at the same
gallop, Ambrosio was swooping low from his
saddle, so that from our side we could see only
his left arm and leg ; and in another instant was
in his seat again, swinging the rabbit triumph-
antly overhead I

We galloped back to the " surround," which
was slowly closing in, and now not a quarter of
a mile across. The inclosed brush seemed alive
with rabbits. At least a dozen were dashing
hither and yon, seeking an avenue of escape.
One old fellow in the center sat up on his
haunches, with ears erect, to take in the whole
situation. But his coolness cost him dear. " Cui-
dado!" came a yell from across the circle; and
we sprang aside just before Bautisto's rifle
flashed, and the too prudent rabbit fell, the
ball passing through his head and singing shrilly
by us.

Now the rabbits began to grow desperate,
and to try to break through the line at all haz-
ards. As soon as one was seen bearing down on
the line, the twenty or thirty nearest men made
a wild rally toward him. Sometimes he would
double away, and sometimes try to dodge be-
tween their very legs. Then what a din of yells

* Be careful.

A PUEBLO RABBIT-IIUNT.

went up ! How the clubs went whizzing like
giant hail ! Surely in that frantic jam of mad-
men something besides the rabbit will be killed!
One of those clubs would brain a man as surely
as it would crack an egg-shell. But no ! The
huddle breaks, the yells die out, and the " mad-
men " are running back to their places, while
one happy boy is tying a long gray something
behind his saddle. No one is even limping.
Not a shin has been cracked — much less a
head. In all my long acquaintance with the
Pueblos, I have never known of such a thing as
one getting hurt even in the most furious melee
of the rabbit-drive. Strangest of all, there is
never any dispute about the game. They always
know which one of that rain of clubs did tlie
work — though how they know, is beyond m\-
comprehension.

Yonder is another rush. The first club thrown
breaks the jack's leg ; and realizing his desperate
situation, the poor creature dives into the base-
ment door of his tiny brother, the cotton-tail —
for the jack never burrows, and never trusts him-
self in a hole save at the last extremity. Our
root-digger rushes forward, sticks his spade in
the hole to mark it, and resumes his clubs. When
the " surround " is over, he will come back to
dig eight or ten feet for his sure victim.

So the afternoon wears on. Each " surround "

takes a little over half an hour, and each now
nets the hunters from ten to twenty rabbits —
mostly jacks, with now and then a fuzzy cotton-
tail. Once in a while a jack succeeds in slipping
through the line, and is oft' like the wind. But
after him are from one to twenty hunters ; and
when they come back, ten minutes or half an
hour later, with foaming horses, it is strange,
indeed, if the fugitive is not danghng at the
back of one of them.

On the slope of the crater we strike a
" bunch " of quail — the beautiful quail of the
Southwest, with their slate-colored coats and
dainty, fan-like crests — and not one escapes.
I have seen the unerring club bring one down
even from a flock on the wing !

The " surrounds " are now making eastward,
and each one brings us nearer home. It has
been a good day's work — thirty-five miles of
hard riding, and fourteen " surrounds " ; and on
the cantle of every saddle bumps a big mass of
gray fur.

The evening shadows grow deeper in the
cafions of the far-off sandias, chasing the last
ruddy glow up and up the scarred cliffs. And
in the soft New Mexican twilight our long
cavalcade goes ringing down the hard Rio
Puerco road toward our quaint, green-rimmed
village beside " the fierce river of the North."

HHC CHILD AND ^^m

-yr-Tj?*

By Julian Hawthorne.

T^rrl

Many centuries ago, — as many as there are
days in the month, — the great King sat beside
the river Nile in Egypt, and watched the labor
of a myriad slaves, building the mighty pile of
his pyramid. And on his strong brown knee,
playing with a coral rattle with golden bells, sat
a little child, whom the great King loved be-
cause of its beauty and gentleness.

" What is that which they build there with so
many big stones ? " the child asked.

"It is my tomb," answered the King.

" What is a tomb ? " asked the child again.

" When I have lived my life and am dead,"
said the King, " and my spirit has gone to meet
Osiris, and be judged by him, — when that time
comes, the embalmers will take my royal body,
and cunningly embalm it, so that it can not perish,
nor decay come near it. Then they will wrap it
in many wrappings of fine linen steeped in per-
fumes, and seal it up in an emblazoned mummy-
case, and they will bear it, in gorgeous procession,
to yonder tomb. In the midst of the tomb there
is a secret chamber, hidden from discovery by
many a wise device; and in the chamber a
sarcophagus, carven from a single stone."

" Will they put your body in the sarcophagus?"
asked the child.

" Aye, they will lay it there," replied the King.

" What will they do then ? " the child asked.

" Then," said the King, " they wdll seal up the
tomb, and the door of the secret chamber ^vill
they close with a strong curtain of stone ; and
they will block up the passage leading to the
chamber, and conceal the entrance to the pas-
sage, so that no man can find it. That will
they do."

" But why will they do all this ? " asked the
child.

" Have I not already told you ? " said the
King. " It is done, that my body may not perish,
but endure forever."

"Forever!" said the child. "How long is
that ? "

" Nay, that is an idle question," replied the
King, smiling. " Who can tell how long ? The
High Priest is a wise man, but even he knows
not. But see how strongly the pyramid is built,
its sides lean together and uphold each other ;
its foundations are in the rock, it can not fall
to ruins ; when all other works of man have
vanished from the earth, my pyramid and my
tomb shall stand."

" But how long will it stand ? " asked the child.
"Will it stand a thousand years ? "

" .\ thousand years ! " cried the King ; " Aye !
and more than a thousand ! "

" Will it stand three thousand years ? " said
the child.

" It will stand three thousand years," the King
answered proudly.

" Will it stand ten thousand years ? "

" Ten thousand years ? " repeated the King,
thoughtfully. " That would be a weary time !
Yet, I think it will last ten thousand years."
But after he had said it, the great King sighed,
and leaned his head upon his hand.

Still the child would not be satisfied. "Will
it last a hundred thousand years ? " it asked.

Thenthe King bent his brows in anger. "Ques-
tion me no more ! " he said. " What does a child
know of rime ? You add centuries to centuries
with a breath, and think, because a hundred

THE CHILD AND THE PYRAMID.

thousand years are quickly said, that they will
pass as quickly. A hundred thousand years ago —
so the High Priest says — this mighty earth, with
its seas and lands and mountains, its trees and
beasts and men, — all these were but as a vapor
of the air, and as a sleeping man's dream of what
may come to pass on the morrow. A hundred
thousand years hence, — who dare look forward
so far ? To you, that are a foolish child, years
are but a sound, and a fancy ; but to men, who
have lived, and striven, and hoped, and sorrowed,
and suffered, years are harder than adamant,
stronger than brass, heavier than gold, fatal as
death. A hundred thousand years ! Child, the
face of Osiris himself shall be darkened before
they be passed ! "

Having thus spoken, the King arose and gave
the child to its nurse, for his spirit was troubled.
And the child also was troubled and wept; not
at the King's words, for it understood them not ;
but because he had set his foot on the coral
rattle vrith golden bells, and had crushed it to
pieces.

The nurse took the child and carried it to the
barge on the river Nile ; and the boatmen took
their oars to row across the river. But it hap-
pened that, in the middle of the river, the child
slipped from the nurse's arms and fell into the
river; and the current caught it, and it was
drowned. It seemed to the child that it fell
asleep ; but immediately it was awake again ;
and opening its eyes, behold ! it was in a world
glorious with life and beauty, and sweet with
music and happiness and love.

" Yes, this is Heaven," said the child to itself;
and with that it sprang up and went to seek its
little sister, who had gone to Heaven a little
while before.

Soon the child found its sister, where she lay
sleeping under the shadow of a plane-tree. So,
remembering that she had been most fond of a

certain blue flower, with a golden heart and a
slender stalk, the child gathered a handful of
these flowers and placed them beside her, where
she would see them when she awoke.

Then the perfume of the flowers aroused the
sleeping sister and she opened her eyes; and
when she saw the flowers, and her brother
beside her, she gave a cry of joy; and they
kissed each other.

An angel came up to them, and smiled upon
them, and said, " Come with me, and look upon
the place of the pyramid of the great King."

They went with him, putting their hands in his.
And he brought them to an opening in Heaven,
below which lay the earth and the place of the
pyramid, and said, " Look ! "

They looked through the opening, and saw
the river Nile, and the bank beside the river,
where the pyramid of the King was built. But
the pyramid was no longer there. There was
only a level tract of sand, and a lizard lying
dead upon it.

" Where is the pyramid ? " asked the child.

" It has perished," replied the angel.

" How can it have perished so soon ? " asked
the child. " I was there in the morning, and
sat on the King's knee, and saw the men build-
ing. And the King said it would last ten thou-
sand years."

" And if he did," said the angel, " are not the
ten thousand years past, and a hundred thousand
years added unto them ? "

" While I have been gathering these flowers ? "
cried the child. " Then, what are years ? "

" Years are pain," replied the angel, " but love
is eternity."

The child looked in the angel's face. " I
know you now," he said ; " you are the King."

But the angel folded the two children in his
arms ; and there were tears on his face, even in
Heaven.

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

By Hjalmar H. Boyesen.

^VER the stable there
was a small room which
was intended for a
coachman. But as Mr.
Craig could not afford
to keep a coachman,
Henry, his son, took
possession of the room
and fitted it up for a
study. He papered the
\valls from the floor to the ceiling with pictures
from the illustrated weeklies, and sat by the hour
staring at them, making out the most astonishing
stories. He knew of no more delightful occupation
than puzzling out the connection between scenes
and subjects which, by pure accident, had been
put side by side, and tracing a coherent story, sug-
gested by the pictures. Thus, for instance, there
was a wood-cut entitled, "Shine, sir?" represent-
ing a boot-black hailing a cu.stomer. Henry, for
the sake of convenience, named him Tom Pratt,
and began to wonder what were the later events
of his career. Presently he discovered a figure
in which he recognized a resemblance to Tom
Pratt. It was in a picture entitled, " A Scene
in the Police Court " — evidently the gentleman
whose boots Tom had blacked had accused him
of picking his pocket. Tom bravely affirmed his
innocence ; but the Judge, taking the gentleman's
word in preference to Tom's, sentenced him to
three months on the Island. In the right-hand
upper comer of the wall was a picture of an
arrest, and Henry had no difficulty in comin-
cing himself that now, at last, the real thief had
been found ; and after his confession to the In-
spector, Tom is released. A large full-page cut
representing a " Monmouth Park Handicap
Race " gave the desired clue to the next chapter.
For there Henr)- found again his friend Tom
and Mr. Jenks, the gentleman who had falsely

accused him. Mr. Jenks, stung by his conscience,
offered to educate Tom, in order to compensate
him for the wrong he had done him. Scene
fourth, which is entitled, " Cleared for Action,"
represents the moment before the command is
given to fire, on board a man-of-war. There
Henry hails with joy the adventurous Tom, ^\■ho
has now become a naval cadet and is about to
distinguish himself in battle. The fifth chapter,
which is taken from the London " Graphic," ex-
hibits Tom in the act of being presented in a
gorgeous uniform to the Czar of Russia. He is
now an officer, and naturally has changed veiy
much. You would find it hard to recognize in
this handsome young fellow, with a mustache
and shoulder-straps of gold braid, the ragged
boot-black of Mulberry Street.

But Henr)', somehow, never fails to recognize
him. He sits hour after hour, following him with
breathless interest, from adventure to adventure,
until finally " .'\ Decoration Day Parade " be-
comes the culmination of Tom's career. For, to
Henry's fancy, it represents a parade in his hero's
honor, when, covered with glory and noble scars,
he returns to his native country and is met by
themayor and aldermen of the city, with speeches
and brass bands and military pomp.

It was this kind of story Henr}' loved to com-
pose ; and the same pictures often furnished him
with incidents for the most different plots. The
" Scene in the Police Court " played an impor-
tant part in the careers of no end of heroes, and
there was not a ragged and disreputable scamp
in the whole shabby crowd whose life Henry did
not puzzle out, even to its minutest details. He
had a warm and charitable heart, and kindly
helped them out of all their difficulties. There
was not one of them who would not have been
a gainer if he could have stepped out of his
own wretched, vicious life into the happy and
prosperous lot which Henry provided for him.

In Hempstead, a little New England village

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

where Henry Craig lived, nothing of any conse-
quence ever happened ; at least so it seemed to
Henry. It had once been a flourishing town,
and some of the men most distinguished in our
colonial and revolutionary historj' had hailed
from it. But now most of the people were poor,
and the town had shrunk to
less than half its former size.
All the young people seemed
to think that Hempstead
was a good place to be bom
in ; but they always liked
it best after they had gone
away. The counrn.- about
the town was largely set-
tled with Irish and Scotch
peasants, who managed to
make a living out of the
farms upon which their
Yankee predecessors had
barely staved off starvation.
Henry's father, after having
struggled vainly to make
both ends meet, had in dis-
gust sold his homestead of
one hundred and eighty
acres for about one-half
of what the buildings alone
were worth ; and now the
Irishman who had bought
the farm was not only sup-
porting a large and cheer-
fully ragged family upon it.
but was la\-ing up money.
And the secret of this Mr.
Craig soon discovered. The
Hibernian let his children
go half naked in summer;
he bought no books, read
no newspapers, employed
no servants; and altogether he had reduced his
needs below the level of even humble living
according to the American standard.

Mr. Craig had many a time regretted that he
had parted with his ancestral acres. For the
grocery business wjiich he was conducting in
town turned out to be in no wise so profitable
as he had expected, and it was, moreover, con-
fining, detrimental to his health. He had been
ambitious to provide his sons with an education
Vol. XVH.— 3.

which would enable them to rise in life, and it
was with a heav\- heart that he finally bade fare-
well to this cherished dream. Frank, the eldest,
who, in the father's j udgment, was the cleverest of
the three, was sent to a neighboring town, where
he obtained a position as clerk in a drj'-goods

APtKED THE
THEM,

WITH ilCTLKES. AND SAT C\ THE HOUR STARING AT
MAKING OUT THE MOST ASTONISHING STORIES."

Store. Anthony, who also was a promising lad,
helped Mr. Craig in his own business, and Henry,
the j'oungest, had for a while superintended a
news-stand, on which he had managed to lose
three or four dollars every month. Naturally
his father came to distrust his business ability,
when Henry repeated this experiment for six
months in succession. And when, finally, the news-
stand was abolished, Henry found rich compen-
sation for his loss, in the stock of illustrated

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

[Xov.

papers which were left on his hands and the
amusement which they afforded him. No end
of jibes he had to endure in consequence of his
disastrous business venture, but he bore them
all with patience. He gradually became recon-
ciled to the thought that he would never make
much of a success in business ; but, somehow, it
gave him no great uneasiness. A trifle shy he
was in his intercourse with other boys and a little
over-sensitive. That which interested him above
all things he dared not confide to any one; for
he knew that it would afford a fine subject for
ridicule. Secretly he stole up to his " study "
every afternoon and regaled himself with the
imaginary events which befell his imaginary
heroes.

II.

When Henry was fourteen years old, his
father concluded that it was time for him to learn
a trade whereby he might make his living. But
all the trades which he jjroijosed seemed equally
uninviting to the boy. He had lived so long in
a wonderland of his own, that all the careers
which actual life presented to a boy in his posi-
tion seemed poor and paltry by comparison. A
choice he had to make, however, — there was no
help for it, — and he chose the trade of a printer,
chiefly because it was in some way associated with
the illustrated papers from which he had derived
so much happiness. Perhaps an opportunity
would be afforded him to continue his excursions
into wonderland. Every newspaper had an ex-
change list, and perhaps he might contrive to
see the exchanges now and then, in the absence of
the editor. At all events, a printer Henry Craig
resolved to be, though in the dim future he saw
himself crowned with fame and honor, received
with brass bands, and speaking from platforms
to vast crowds of people. That he was to be
something great — he had no idea what — was
a foregone conclusion, and that his apprentice-
ship as a printer was to be merely the lowest rung
in the ladder of fame which he meant to mount,
seemed also quite probable. It was this vision
of future glor}' which made him endure the long
and tedious apprenticeship in the ofiice of the
" Hempstead Bugle," where he set type day after
day and night after night, until his finger-tips
were numb and his back ached. However,

Mr. Martin, the editor, was a good-natured man,
who willingly lent him books and occasionally
spoke an encouraging word to him. But when
Henry, emboldened by this kindness, offered
one of his poems for the paper, the editor quite
changed his tune.

" Look here, young man," he said, " you are
getting too smart. Your business, as I under-
stand it, is to set type, not to furnish copy."

" This stuff here," he continued scornfully,
after having read the poem, "is the veriest drivel.
And then you rhjme room with fume .' If )ou
don't know better than that, you had better let
rhyming alone and stick to type-setting."

Henry felt terribly humiliated by this repri-
mand, and tried to accept Mr. Martin's ad-
vice " to let rhyming alone." But somehow he
found that a more difficult task than he had
thought it. The rhymes 7vould come into his
head, however mucli he might try to banish
them; and though he did not flatter himself
that they were poetry, he did take pleasure in
them, and vaguely imagine that perhaps they
might point the way for him to the glory of
which he dreamed.

It happened during the third year of Henry's
apprenticeship, when he was seventeen years old,
that great preparations were made for the cele-
bration of the second centennial of the settlement
of Hempstead. A prize of one hundred dollars
was offered for the best poem on the occasion,
and the competition was thrown open to all
" poets who were natives of Hempstead, or de-
scended from Hempstead families." The wor-
thy selectmen who placed this restriction upon
the competition had probably no very clear idea
of what they were doing. It seemed desirable
to them to encourage home talent, and they
considered themselves excessively liberal in ad-
mitting the compositions of non-resident ])oets
"descended from Hempstead families."

When Henr)- Craig saw this alluring announce-
ment in the " Bugle," — he had, in fact, himself set
it up, but the full meaning of it had not dawned
upon him until now, — his heart was fired with
a wild ambition. \\"hat if he jvrote the poem and
won the one hundred dollars ? It was not so much
the money which he cared for, — though that, to
be sure, was an additional inducement, — as the
triumph over Mr. Martin who had sneered at

X889.]

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

his poetic aspirations. It was not once, but many
times, since he presented that unfortunate poem,
that the editor had addressed him as '"the mute,
inglorious Milton,' " " the viUage Shakspere," etc.,
and asked him sarcastically how his muse was
thri\ing. Now Henry's opportunit)- had come to
prove that his talent was genuine, and he meant
to make the best of it. Eagerly he began to dehe
into the history of the settlement and the early
days of the town ; and much interesting material
did he unearth. He stood at his case, setting
type automatically, but scarcely knowing what
he was doing. Sonorous lines hummed in his
brain, and surreptitiously he jotted them down
upon pieces of paper. It was on such an occa-
sion that he was responsible for a misprint which
caused no end of amusement in the town. In
an excerpt from a letter recording the travels
of a local statesman whose pretensions were all
out of proportion to his merit, he printed, " On
April 6th, at 2 p. m., the Senator reached the
summit of the Asinine," instead of " the summit
of the Apennines."

He barely escaped discharge in consequence
of this blunder, and he surely would not have
escaped if Mr. Martin had known he had been
composing poetry during his working hours.

III.

Henry finished his Hempstead Centennial
Ode in good time and sent it to the judges signed
with the //('/// cfe plume, " Bunker Hill." Four weeks
of feverish an>aety followed, during which he
found it difficult to apply himself to his work.
He had moments of the wildest exhilaration,
when he sang to himself and scarcely could keep
from dancing ; and there were hours of unrest
and depression during which he seemed to him-
self a presumptuous fool who would be sure,
sooner or later, to be covered with ridicule.
Probably some of the greatest men of New-
England were trying for that one hundred dol-
lars; and what chance would a half-educated
boy have in competing with them ? \\'hen
he thought of Longfellow and Whittier and
Lowell, and the idea of his presuming to have
his callow rhj-mes comjjared with their mature
and noble verse, his ears burned uncomfortably.
But then, of course, he did not know that they

were among the competitors. He ardently
hojjed that they had in this instance resisted
the temptation of the hundred dollars.

The fateful evening arrived at last. The select-
men, the judges, and as many of the citizens as
could crowd in, were assembled in the large town-
hall. It was understood that a number of unsus-
pected poets who, from regard for the public weal,
had practiced their art in secret, were sitting with
palpitating hearts in that audience, distracted by
hope and fear. There was a rumor, too, that some
literary celebrity had sent in an ode, but that
his claim to descent from a Hempstead family
would not bear examination. Some one who
professed to know declared, too, that his ode
would have had no chance anyway, as it did
not mention a single Hempstead family by name.
And, as every one knew, the intention was not
only to celebrate the founders of the town, but
also to reflect some little glory upon their de-
scendants of to-day, who had spent their lives
wearing holes in their honorable names.

Henry had been on hand early; but, from
modesty, had taken a seat in the middle aisle,
not far from the door. The five judges — three
clergymen, a doctor, and a lawyer — came march-
ing up the aisle, two by two, with the odd lawyer
bringing up the rear. Henry gazed into their
faces with earnest scrutiny, but could discover
nothing which warranted him in entertaining
any hope. They looked absolutely non-commit-
tal. Very likely they had given the prize, without
knowing it, to Longfellow or Lowell ; for with
the fictitious names there was no possibility of
knowing whom they had favored.

Henry gave himself up to despair. He felt
so unutterably small and foolish. It was well
nobody knew that he had tried for the prize.
The eldest clergyman came forward and invoked
the Divine blessing upon the assembly.

Then a glee club, from a neighboring college,
mounted the platform and sang a patriotic song,
which was enthusiastically encored. The eight
collegians, who in the meanwhile had descended
into the audience, were obliged to reassemble,
and sang now :

" Said the bull-fiog to tlie owl,
Oh, what '11 you have to drink ? "

which aroused even greater enthusiasm. When
at last quiet was restored, the chairman of the

THE POIiT OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

[No\-.

committee, a Baptist minister, came forward
and made an endless speech concerning the
significance of the occasion, the difliculties with
which the committee had to contend, etc. He
possessed, in an eminent degree, the art of say-

necks, others tossed about uneasily in their seats
and tried to look unconcerned.

" I hold in my hand," began the chairman,
" an — an envelope."

Nobody had been prepared for so startling an

ing in twenty words what might be said in two ; announcement. A few snickered ; some laughed

'• ALL THE PEOPLE TURNED ABOUT TO LuOK AT HLNL

and when he had finished Henry was so ex-
hausted that it seemed a matter of slight con-
sequence to him who had won the prize. His
interest revived quickly, however, when the
speaker turned to the legal member of the com-
mittee and received from him a sealed envelope.
Excited expectation was expressed in every
countenance. Some rose up and craned their

outright. Henry heaved a deep sigh, merely to
give vent to his agitation.

" This envelope," the chairman continued,
impressively, " contains the name of the success-
ful competitor — the author of the ode which
will be read at the centennial celebration — a
week hence. The committee does not as yet
know his, or her, real name. The name — the

)•]

THE POET OF THE HEMPSTEAD CENTENNIAL.

a/iiis, if I may so express myself — which he lias
used is — 'Bunker Hill.'"

The name exploded in Henry's ears like the
report of a gun. The walls whirled about him.
The audience swam in a luminous mist. The
floor billowed under his feet. He clung on to
the bench in front of him with all his might, so
as to make sure that he was yet on the solid
earth.

" The gentleman — the lady — or I should
say — the poet signing himself ' Bunker Hill,' "
the minister went on, after having broken the
seal of the envelope, " is — is — that is to say — "
he hemmed and hawed as if he had difficulty
in pronouncing the name, "is a gentleman —
named — Henry Craig."

A strange hush fell upon the audience. Some
people thought there must be a mistake. Henry
Craig — nobody in the town knew any promi-
nent person of that name. Very likely it must
be a stranger. Nobody thought of the seven-
teen-year-old boy who was setting type in the
" Bugle" office.

" If Mr. Henry Craig is present in this audi-
ence," the reverend gentleman proceeded, "will
he kindly step up on this platform and receive
his reward ? "

Then, far back in the hall, a tall and slender
lad rose with a face pale with excitement: He
ran his hand nervously through his hair, pulled
himself together, and walked up the aisle. All
the people turned about to look at him. When
he had passed half a dozen benches, he felt a
pair of eyes keenly riveted upon him. He looked
up and met Mr. Martin's wondering gaze. Sur-
prise, pleasure, and also a shadow of doubt were

written all over the editor's features. But when
he had convinced himself that there was, indeed,
no mistake, up he sprang, waved his hat and
cried, " Three cheers for Henry Craig ! "

And the audience rose as one man and shouted
" Hurrah ! " so that the windows of the old town-
hall rattled and the walls shook.

Henry never knew how he reached that plat-
form, received the hundred-dollar bill in an
envelope, and made his way back to his seat.
His heart was thumping away like a trip-hammer,
his blood was throbbing in his temples, and there
was a mist in his eyes which made all things dim.
He remembered that the people were thronging
about him, congratulating him, pressing his
hands, and a matronly lady kissed him and said:
" What a pity, my boy, that your mother did not
live to see this day."

IV.

This was the beginning, but it was by no means
the end, of Henry Craig's career. In fact, his ca-
reer is yet at its meridian, and his thousands of
readers hope he has yet many years of honor-
able usefulness before him.

When he had read his ode at the Hempstead
Centennial, a number of the wealthier citizens
became convinced that a boy who could write
so fine a poem at seventeen would, if he was
properly educated, in time become an honor
to his native town and State. They therefore
clubbed together, sent Henry to school, and
later to Harvard College. He has now won a
fair fame, and is one of the most promising of the
younger poets and novehsts of the United States.

BLUE-EYED MARY.

By M. E. Wilkins.

Single-eyed to child and sunbeam.
In her httle grass-green gown.
Prim and sweet and fair as ever.
Blue-eyed Mary 's come to town.

Yes, you may, child, go to see her,
You can stay and play an hour ;
But be sweet and good and gentle ;
Blue-eyed Mary is a flower.

Dorothy Dot

was singing as
she hung the
clothes on the
" ' ■ line. How the

wild things tossed and flickered in the light
breeze ! Dorothy had to laugh at the tangle
they made of themselves, as she went busily on
witii her work. And a pretty picture was she
with her golden curls shining in the early morn-
ing sunbeams, and her serene, bright face.

" Dorothy Dot, I 'm awful lonesome ! " cried
a voice hidden, half-smothered, in the empty
clothes-basket ; and a small boy clambered out
of the basket and peeped between the sheets
blowing in the wind.

" Come to breakfast then, good little man,"
cried Dorothy, whisking up the basket as she
started on a run to the cottage, followed closely
by her little brother, Billy.

Mr. Protheroe, the father of these children,
had charge of the light-house on Crab Island.
He was a faithful, true man, respected by all who
knew him. As for his wife, sweet woman, serenely
happy in her isolated home, she seldom visited
the mainland. To-day, however, repairs needed
in the bell-buoy, had taken Mr. Protheroe to the
town on tlie coast, and his wife had accompanied
him, to make some purchases of warm clothing
for the children.

Dorothy had risen to see her parents off at
four o'clock ; and it was now only six, and here
was Billy lonesome already for his mother. But

the light-hearted girl knew it was in her power
to keep him happy, so she began to sing a merry
song as she set the bread and milk on the table.

The small white cottage was built within the
shadow of the light-house. More than once, dur-
ing some unusually fierce storm, the family had
been obliged to take refuge in the stronger build-
ing, fearing that the cottage might be swept away.
Behind the light-house, on the southern side of
the island, was a strip of herbage, green enough
to satisfy "old Molly," the complacent cow,
tethered to a post in the center. On either side
rocks stretched away to the sea. The straggling
shape of the island broke the force of the waves
ere they reached the beach on the mainland, so
that it was seldom difficult to navigate the waters
of the bay.

The breakfast was evidently much enjoyed, for
peals of laughter rippled on the breeze. When
it was over and the work in the cottage done,
Dorothy called Billy and went out into the sun-
shine.

What a lovely day ! Certainly Indian Summer
at last. The light fall of snow of a week before
had disappeared, and the sun was warm.

Oh, how happy she felt in this gay sunsJiine !
No wonder that her voice rang out in merry
snatches of song. Suddenly some of the bright-
ness faded from her face and a thoughtful look
stole there with somewhat of a shadow. Yes,
there was one hitherto uru-ealized dream of bliss
in Dorothy's heart. She did so want to have a
"Thanksgiving Party." Mother told such lovely

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING PARTY.

Stories of parties at tlie old homestead in Ver-
mont, that, had a fairy godmother appeared to
Dorothy to ask what gift she most desired in
the world, the answer would have come at once,
" Oh, how I should like a Thanksgiving party,
with real live people, lots and lots of children,
and games and stories by the firelight ! " She
had lived all the fifteen years of her life on the
lonely island.

" Dorothy Dot ! see how low the tide is. The
' Old Crab ' is out of water."

Now the " Old Crab " was a dangerous rock,
only bare at exceptionally low tides, and it was
bare that day. There he lay with the one claw
upraised, the clutch of which had often proved
disastrous to vessels before the Government had
placed near it a bell-buoy, to ring unceasing
notes of warning at the ebb and flow of the tide.

" Let us go down to the buoy and look for
sea-mosses," cried Dorothy, as she realized that
the great rock was out of water.

The two children climbed actively over the
rocks. Soon they stood upon the " Old Crab's "
back, and even danced up and down on his
massive head.

" It IS a dangerous rock ! " cried Dorothy,
seriously, as she looked over the jagged edge.
Then, climbing up the claw to the broken bell-
buoy, she continued, " But all the pilots know
of the ' Crab.' Surely they will avoid it even
though the buoy is broken."

" They can't see it in the dark," cried practical
Billy, as he floated a stranded star-fish in a pool
in the rocks.

" But there will be moonlight to-night ; they
can see the rock quite well. Still I do wish the
bell would swing." Then she was hidden behind
the huge claw, and Billy knew she was reach-
ing to the buoy for the sea-mosses which clung
to Its sides. Presently she touched the bell and
made it ring. How loud its voice sounded in
the stillness!

Dorothy clambered back to her brother's side,
and, setting the bucket in the pool, began to
show him the mosses she had gathered.

" It 's Thanksgiving to-morrow," said Billy, ir-
relevantly. " Are n't we going to have chicken-
pie, Dorothy Dot ? "

" Of course we are," assented she; "and we '11
pretend we have a party, — shall we, Billy ? "

Billy was of a social turn of mind, so he
nodded. " I want a boy to play with," he said.
Neither of the children went often to the main-
land, and of course few visitors ever came to the
rocky island.

When dinner-time came, the children ran
back to the cottage, and Dorothy hastened to
set the table.

But, by the time the meal was finished, the
dazzling blue of the sea had changed to gray.
" \Miite horses " rode the riotous waves, leaping
in on the Crab's back, and over the claw, break-
ing into foam that was blown over the green by
the wild wind. Overhead, dense cloud-banks
rose from the horizon to the zenith, and obscured
the sun; then, drifting on, they were swept wind-
ward until the sky was covered. Sea-gulls, beat-
ing against the stiff breeze, flew inland, making
dismal outcry as they hovered over the light-
house, or sought shelter among the rocky ledges
below.

" I don't like this," said Dorothy Dot, as she
went to the door and glanced anxiously round.
Then, as no warning note rang from the bell-
buoy, she scanned the seas for a sail.

" Oh, I hope no ship will come along to-
night," she exclaimed.

" Dorothy, how can Mother get home?"

" Oh," she replied, serenely, " Father will bring
her safely. You know the bay will not be rough,
as the ocean is."

It grew cold as the warm sun of Indian Sum-
mer was hidden by the clouds. Dorothy went
into the cottage, and an hour flew fast as she
began to mount the sea-mosses. Still she was
conscious all the time of the rising wind and sea.
At length she threw a shawl over her head and
went out. Billy watched her fighting the wind
as she ran up to the steps of the light-house.
Then he saw her look anxiously out to sea, and
he was sure something was wrong when she
came running back to the cottage.

" Billy, darling Billy, will you stay here?" she
cried.

Billy jumped from his chair, suspiciously.

" Not without you, Dorothy Dot. I should
be lonesome. 1 'm going with you, Dorothy
Dot."

And together they ran down to the one
small sand-beach.

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING TARTY.

[Nov.

"Oh, Dorothy Dot!" and "Oh, Billy!" ex-
claimed the brother and sister, shocked at the
sight before them.

For the huge claw of the stony monster had
once more done deadly work! The leaping waves
had hid the danger, and the deep seas surround-
ing the Crab had deceived the pilot, now the
warning voice of the bell was mute. A ship
riding on a rising wave had struck, and, with

" And a baby ! There 's a baby in her arms,"
cried Billy. " And there 's a boy just my size
there, too."

The boats one after another were lowered and
broken to pieces by the jagged rocks. Dorothy
looked around almost frantic, wondering what
she could do to help them. Her father would
have rowed out to the wreck, but — could s/ic, all
alone ? She saw Billy's eager eye glance toward

^^ii:;#^^^#§^|£-

- ■■•:^

-; -^■.-^

'AS IT ROSE ON THE NEXT WAVE, THE SAILOR MANAGED TO CLIMB IN." (SEE NEXT PAGE. I

her rudder gone, was helplessly beating shore-
ward among the jagged rocks.

" Oh, if Father was only here," cried Dorothy,
in despair. " They are going to launch the boats,
and the current there will carry them on the
rocks as soon as they reach the water. Oh ! oh ! "

Not only were Dorothy's fears verified by the
loss of the boat launched, but at this moment
the ship, plunging wildly, struck again on the
claw, and was jammed between the head and
neck of the monster Crab, and for a moment
was still.

" Now 's the time," shouted Dorothy, waving
her arms wildly to attract the attention of the
crew. " Oh, I see a woman on board ! "

the boat, high on the beach. With his help she
could push it down to the water's edge, and per-
haps Father would soon be home, and then —

By this time her thoughts had become actions.
Billy was helping her with the boat.

" I 'm going with you, Dorothy Dot," said he.

The boat was now ready to be launched. The
children stood on the beach, however, waiting to
see what they could possibly do to help the peo-
ple in the wrecked ship. Dorothy knew quite
well that she dared not venture near the currents
which swept round the Old Crab.

Just then a sailor appeared on the bulwarks.
He had a rope tied round his waist, and it was
evident that he meant to srtim ashore. The chU-

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING PARTY.

dren watched him breathlessly for a moment, and
then they looked at one another as the same
thought flashed through their minds. For it
was quite plain, now, what they must do, and
Dorothy pushed at the boat with all her strength
as the man's head came above the waves after
his plunge from the ship. He was a magnificent
swimmer, she could see, but it was a long dis-
tance to the shore, and the water was very cold at
this season. If only she could reach him before
he became exhausted, fighting with the waves !

Billy came splashing into the shallow water,
but his sister was too quick for him; she pushed
off, leaving the little fellow dancing with rage on
the beach.

" For Billy will be safe, if I don't get back,"
Dorothy was saying to herself as she rowed
toward the sailor. " Father would wish me to
do this, I know, as he can not come himself"

She had seen her father risk his life in the per-
formance of his duty too often to doubt that he
would have her also do so. She was not afraid.
True, she had never taken the boat out alone,
in such a sea as this, but then she knew every
rock on the reef — knew, too, where she would
escape the roughest part of the tide, and how
best to meet the breakers that unceasingly beat
against this rock-bound coast. Besides this, she
was as much at home in a boat as ashore, and
her father had trained her to row a steady stroke.
Her chief difficulty lay in the fact that she could
barely see, over the tossing, swirling waves,
whether she was steering straight toward the
sailor, who made his way on by diving through
some of the breakers, and thus was frequently
lost to view. Her boat was less manageable,
too, than it would have been with some one
astern to keep the balance true. But if she did
not see the sailor, he was quick to see her, as he
came up on a wave, and the people on board
the ship cheered as he struck out more vigor-
ously than ever in the direction of the boat.

Dorothy in the boat and the sailor in the water
together held the lives of the crew in their hands.
But at the present moment all the girl's anxiety
was merged in the fear that the man's strength
would give out before she reached him; and he
was only afraid that she, a mere child, would lose
command of the boat as it came further out into
the heavier breakers.
Vol. XVn.-4.

The people clinging to the wreck, who in-
cluded the captain's wife and children, in addi-
tion to the crew, watched the boat as it tossed
up and down, with agonized expectation. Could
it live in such a sea ?

Dorothy gave a cry of joy as she saw two brown
hands suddenly clutch the stern of the boat ; and
as it rose on the next wave the sailor managed
to climb in. He was very much exhausted, for
the water was bitterly cold, and had not the
boat been opportunely driven near to him, he
must soon have given up all hope of reaching
shore alive.

Dorothy steered for the little sand-beach,
where poor Billy was still rushing up and down
in excitement. The waves helped her now,
though in extremely rough fashion. Presently
the sailor, recovering his breath, took one oar,
and in a short time the boat was beached.

" God bless you, little girl ! " cried the man,
as he ran up to the rocks with his rope, which he
pulled tight and fastened securely. Upon it
another sailor crossed, hand over hand, bearing
a slighter rope which was fastened to a basket
on the wreck. In this basket two of the captain's
children were securely tied, and by means of a
block and tackle were carried over on the large
rope in safety.

Would there still be time to save the mother
and baby ? The sailors looked doubtfully at the
huge waves, which reared their mighty crests
high above the claw, and broke over it upon
the deck of the vessel. If those waves should
hft the ship from the rock and set her adrift
again, all on board must be lost.

Dorothy thought she would never forget
those anxious minutes while the woman was
being brought off in the basket. It seemed as
if the waves, jealous of losing their prey, strove
fiercely to outleap one another as they surged
and foamed angrily round the basket.

" Oh, she must be drowned, after all," cried
Dorothy. " Can't we do anything better than
this ? "

The men did not answer. Their steady, strong
arms held the rope and they were drawing the
basket nearer and nearer.

A few more minutes of suspense, then a cheer
rose from the wreck ; the sailors ashore had hold
of the basket. Dorothy unclasped her hands to

DOROTHY DOT S THANKSGIVING PARTY.

receive a tiny baby muffled up in wraps. She
sat down on the beach to peep at it.

" It is ahve ! " she cried, joyfully. " Oh, I was
afraid it would be drowned."

" And the mother 's alive too, but wet to the
skin. I 'd take 'em in to the fire, if I was you,"
said the sailor.

But the captain's wife, regardless of her wet
garments, would not leave the beach until she
could see her husband safe at her side.

The crew did not wait to be carried in the
basket ; they clambered along on the rope, and
at last only the captain was left on the wreck.

He seemed to be hunting for something on
the decks, but finally appeared on the bulwarks
with a bundle tied upon his breast.

The delay almost cost him his Hfe, for when
he was half-way across, the rope parted, as a
huge billow, hfting the wreck, set it adrift among
the rocks, at the will of the waves. The sailors
manned the boat, and pulled toward their cap-
tain with a will. As he was a strong swimmer, he
managed to keep up until they arrived to help
him. His poor wife watched and prayed by
turns, almost beside herself with anxiety.

When at length he stood safely at her side, he
opened the bundle on his breast. Out flew the
ship's cat, more than indignant at the soaking
to which she had been subjected, and ungrate-
fully scratched her kind friend as she wildly
sprang out of his arms, and rushed away with
tail held high in air.

As Dorothy led the way to the cottage, she
explained that the absence of her father was
the reason she had taken the boat out alone.

It was growing dark. The captain pointed to
the light-house.

" Give us the keys, daughter. We 'U take
care of the lamp for him."

" Oh, Father will be back," she repHed, tran-
quilly. " He has had to go a long way round
to avoid the currents, or he would have been
here long ago."

The captain and sailors glanced sadly at one
another; they feared the little maid's father

would never be able to reach the island ahve,
in so terrible a sea.

But five minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Proth-
eroe came in. Dorothy never knew the deadly
peril in which her parents had been during that
half hour.

Little need to tell of the cordial welcome
they gave their unexpected guests, or of their
joy when they found their brave Dorothy had
done her duty so well. When her father put
his hand on her head, and said, " You did well,
my Dot. God bless you ! " she felt happy and,
gay as a lark, she went singing about her work.
All the praises and thanks of the guests seemed
worth nothing in comparison with such rare
words from her reticent father. Billy too was
in a gay mood ; he was busy interviewing the
captain's little boy, but his powers of expression
were a little modified, as he had screamed him-
self as hoarse as a heron in the afternoon.

The gale increased in fur)' during the night,
and raged throughout Thanksgiving Day. No
one could get to the mainland, so Dorothy's
desire for a " real live party " was amply fulfilled.
After dinner the old folks played games with the
children, and the captain played Billy's mouth-
organ so musically that the sailors danced in
their very best manner. Once or twice Dorothy
pinched herself to make sure all this was really
happening : that it was not a dream, nor one
of mother's lovely stories of the olden days at
the homestead.

But no ! The solemn voice of the Storm Spirit
rang from the ocean. The winds howled ; tlie
waves broke into cataracts of foam over the
" Old Crab's " hideous claw, and roared sullenly
amid the rocky clefts in the gullies.

Yet, indoors there was the true Thanksgiving
spirit of cheer. Dorothy Dot, as night drew on,
sat at her father's feet, the flames from the drift-
wood fire flashing on her golden curls, her rosy
cheeks glo^ving with excitement. And as the
sailors began to spin their wonderful yams, she
gave a sigh of perfect contentment.

Happy " Dorothy Dot ! "

A STORY OF A HORSE.

By Captain C. A. Curtis, U. S. A.

I MAKE HIS ACQUAINTANCE.

I WAS acting-quartermaster of a command
composed of two companies, which garrisoned
a log fort near Prescott, Arizona, during the
years 1864 and 1865. The fort was an inclosure
of some three hundred feet square, built of thick
pine-logs set up vertically in the ground, with
regular block-house bastions, of the colonial
period, at diagonal comers; and it had huge
gates of hewn timber that swung ponderously
on triple iron hinges. The fort stood on a
slight elevation overlooking the post corral, a
structure built of the same material and in the
same general manner as the fort, but inclosing
a much larger space. In this corral were gath-
ered nightly the horses of the cavalry troop, the
horses and mules of the quartermaster, and the
three hundred head of cattle and one thousand
sheep of the commissary.

The presence of these animals grazing through
the days on the hill-sides and plains about our
reservation was a special and alluring tempta-
tion to the marauding Apaches and Navajos,
and frequent chases and skirmishes were neces-
sary in order to protect our stock.

The garrison consisted of one company of
regular infantry and one troop of New Mexican
volunteer cavalry. The men composing the
troop were, with a few exceptions, Mexicans,
speaking the Spanish language, and using tactics
translated into that tongue.

The troop had arrived in January, after a long
and fatiguing march of seven hundred miles,
and two days after their arrival their captain
had turned over to me sixteen worn-out, broken-
down, sick, and generally decrepit horses. Ac-
cording to custom in such cases, I receipted for
them, and in due time ordered them sold at pub-
lic auction to the highest bidder.

On the morning of the day appointed for the

sale to take place, the fifer of the infantry com-
pany, a neat Irish soldier, known among his
comrades as Joe Cain, who acted as my attend-
ant and a general guardian of my belongings,
paused in the doorway, and, raising his right
hand to his cap- visor, asked if he " could spake
t' the Liftinent ? " As I nodded, he asked :

" Would the Liftinent like to buy a fine horse ? "

" No, Cain. I have no use for two horses,
and I can not afford the expense of another."

" But you can buy this one for Uttle or noth-
ing, sor."

" How much ?"

" If the Liftinent will let me have five dollars,
I '11 buy him the bist horse in the post."

" The best horse in the post for five dollars !
What kind of nonsense are you talking, Cain ? "
and I turned to some papers on my table which
demanded my signature. But Cain lingered in
the doorway at a respectful " attention," and
when I signed the last paper his hand went up
again to his visor and remained there until I said :

" Well, what more have you to say ? "

'■ If the Liftinent will buy the horse I spake of,
he will niver repint of his bargin. I 've known
the baste for tin years, sor, — from the time I
jined as a music b'y at Fort Craig, sor."

" He must be an exceedingly old horse, then,"
I said.

"Nobody knows his age, sor; he's a vit-
eran ; but he 's a fine horse, all the same, sor."

" But I do not need another horse for my
duties, Cain, as I told you just now ; and I
should have to buy his hay and grain, and that
is an expense I do not care to be put to, with no
prospect of a profitable return."

" There nade be no expinse, sor. There is a
sorplus of forage in the corral, and the forage-
master '11 let me have all I 'm wantin' if the Lif-
tinent will jist give him the laste bit of a hint."

More to please a valued and trustworthy at-
tendant than with any hope of securing a good

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

horse, I gave Cain the desired five dollars. I
learned, in further conversation, that the won-
derful steed he proposed to buy for me was one
of the lot to be sold at auction.

1 did not attend the sale of the sixteen horses.
I simply noticed that the Government money
account had increased seventy-five dollars by
the auction, showing plainly enough that the
value of the whole number was a little less
than five dollars each. A whole month had
passed, and I had entirely forgotten that I had
given Cain the five dollars for the purchase of
a horse, when one day, as I again sat writing
in my room, I heard the rapid clatter of hoofs
apjjroaching, and presently noticed that a horse
had stopped outside. I stepped to the door
and found Joe Cain awaiting my arrival, hold-
ing by the halter-strap a fine, large bay horse,
in good flesh, smooth as satin, and bright-eyed
as a colt. "Will the Liflinent plaze to come out
and inspict his horse ? " said Cain ; and then he
led him about on exhibirion. I was pleased to
find that the horse, while in no \vise remarkable,
showed many good points. In fact, the animal
was a great surprise to me. I sat down on a
log which had been rejected in the building of
the fort, and looked long at the metamorphosed
creature before I spoke.

" So that is the horse you bought for five dol-
lars, is it, Cain ? " I began.

" Four dollars and forty cints, sor. I bought
the halter with the sixty cints that was lift, sor."

" But I don't see how such a horse could be
had for that money. And this is really one of
those miserable hacks we sold at aucUon ? "

" Not a bit else, sor," said the delighted
Cain, his face in a glow from the pleasure he
was deriving from my wonderment and evident
approval of the result of his venture.

" Has he a name ? " 1 asked.

" ' Two- Bits,' sor."

"'Two-Bits' — twenty-five cents! — how did
he get that name, Cain ? "

" He won it at Fort Craig, sor, in a race in

'S9-"

In answer to further questions and after some
irrelevant talk, Cain, having tied the horse to a
tree, walked slowly backward and forward be-
fore me, and proceeded to give the history of
the horse so far as he knew it. and his reasons

for asking me to make the purchase. When he
went into the corral one day, he said, he saw
one of the stable-men kicking and bearing an
old steed to make him rise to his feet. The
animal made repeated efforts to stand, but each
time fell back through weakness. Cain ap-
proached, and, by certain saddle-marks and a
peculiar star in the forehead, recognized an old
acquaintance. He even insisted that the old
horse knew him. From some knowledge of
horses, picked up in a stable during a wander-
ing life before he enlisted, the soldier perceived,
after a careful examination, that the horse was
not permanently disabled, but simply suffering
from ill-treatment and neglect. He began his
care of the beast at once, and as soon as the
auction was ordered, he determined to ask me
to buy him.

The first knowledge Cain had of Two-Bits,
was that the horse belonged to the Mounted
Rifles and was with them at Fort Craig in New
Mexico, in 1859. On Fourth of July of that
year, the officers of the fort and the civilians of
the neighboring ranches got up a horse-race by
way of celebrating the day. The races were
to be, one for American horses, over an eight-
hundred-yards straightaway course, and one for
broncos, over a course of three hundred yards.
On the day before the race, the first sergeant of
the Rifles waited upon a lieutenant of the regi-
ment and requested him to enter a " company
horse," — one which had been assigned as a
mount to one of their number. The request
was granted. All the horses were to be ridden
by soldiers.

At two o'clock on the afternoon of the Fourth
the horses were assembled at the course to the
west of the fort, Two-Bits being present and
mounted by the boy-fifer, Joe Cain, of the infan-
try. The officers walked around the " company
horse " with considerable curiosity, commenting
on his appearance, and wondering how, if he
possessed any merits, he had escaped their no-
tice up to this time. Captain Tilford seemed to
express the general sentiment of the officers, at
the conclusion of the inspection, when he said,
" I would not give two bits for that horse's
chance of winning the prize."

The race came off, and the carefully groomed
and gayly caparisoned horses of the officers and

A STORY OF A HORSE.

civilians, and the plainly equipped favorite of
the soldiers burst down the track in line, to ar-
rive scattered and blown at the goal, wnth the
despised " company horse " some three lengths
ahead. And from that day the victor was
known as " Two- Bits."

With the breaking out of the Civil War all
mounted regiments were made cavalry. This
wiped out of existence the two dragoon regi-
ments and the rifle regiment, the latter being re-
christened the Third Cavalry, and ordered from
New Mexico to the East, for service in the field.
Their horses were left behind, being turned over
to the New Mexico volunteer cavalry. Tv\-o-
Bits was assigned to the troop whicli was then
a part of the garrison of Fort Whipple. In the
march from the valley of the Rio Grande to the
valley of the Rio Colorado he had succumbed
to Mexican neglect and abuse, and fallen a vic-
tim to hard usage. And so, by a mere chance,
the meeting took place between the veteran
steed and his former jockey of the Fort Craig
race. Cain had recognized his old friend of five
years before, and knowing that he would not be
allowed to own a horse, he did the next best
thing, — made me his owiier, which gave him the
care of the animal, and frequent opportunities
to take him out for an airing.

From this time on, I had many long rides on
Two-Bits, in the weary and tiresome pursuit of
the Indians, who never neglected to take advan-
tage of the unprotected state of the Territory.
I became very much attached to the horse and
even took pains to win a place in his affections,
often being much surprised at his wonderful in-
telligence and almost human discernment. He
would never desert his rider in a place of dan-
ger, no matter what the temptation. Three or
four times when taking him out for exercise,
Cain had dismounted for some purpose and
Two-Bits had immediately kicked up his heels
like a colt and trotted back to his stall in the
corral.* But once at a good distance from the
post or train, or in a situation of danger, and
he would stay by his rider when free to go.
This statement may appear doubtful to many,
but ever)' man who was stationed at Fort Whip-
ple during the time Two- Bits occupied a stall
there, believed more than I have stated. Two
instances, which I will relate, so impressed me

• To show that he was no respecter of persons, I m

that I can have but one opinion of this noble
old horse. Once, when I had ridden down the
valley of the Rio Verde, some tliirty miles from
the fort, on a solitary fishing excursion, I strolled
along its banks for several hours, standing by
pools and handling a rod, while a carbine rested
in my left elbow and two revohers hung at my
waist. I looked over my shoulders for Indians
more frequently than the fish favored me with
bites. Suddenly, Two-Bits, who had been graz-
ing close by, unpicketed, came trotting down to
me in considerable excitement. Without stop-
ping to inquire the cause I dropped fishing-tackle
and basket, mounted and rode to an eminence,
from which I saw, on the opposite side of the
stream, half a mile away, a party of mounted
Apaches who had not been visible from my
fishing-place because of a fringe of willows. As
soon as they discovered me they whooped and
gave chase; but the long legs of Two-Bits made
nothing of running away from them, and I was
soon far beyond their reach.

The second incident occurred when I was
returning from a visit of inspection to a hay-
camp ten miles from the post. I was riding at
a walk along a level road, which was skirted on
my left by thick sage-brush. My left foot was
out of the stirrup. A sudden shot from cover
cut my coat-collar and caused the horse to jump
suddenly to the right. Having no support
on my left, and being taken off my guard, I top-
pled from the saddle and fell to the ground, but
fortunately landed on my feet and facing the
ambuscade, so I quickly covered the spot with
my rifle. Two-Bits did not stir after I fell, and
I walked backwards around to his right side,
and mounted in reverse of custom, still covering
the possible enemy, and rode away, first slowly
and then at a run, until beyond rifle-range. Then
I saw three Apaches rise from the brush.

Again, when Lieutenant R and myself,

with ten men, had been four days in pursuit of
a band of Indians that had run oflf the stock
from a neighboring ranch, we found one of our
men unable to sit in his saddle from wounds.
We removed the saddle from his horse and
bound him at length along the back, and did
our best to make him as comfortable as pos-
sible. He rode along quietly for some time, and
then asked to be put on Two-Bits. After this,

ust admit that l)e twice did the same thing for me.

3°

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

the horse was a greater favorite than ever with
the men. Not one of our party could have
been made to believe that Two-Bits did not
understand the necessity of treading gently with
his sensitive burden ; and I must admit that
when our road lay down some bowlder-strewn
declivity, the horse seemed careful to select the
places for his feet, and certainly was tediously
slow. I confess I am of the opinion of the
men ; I believe the horse fully understood the
condition of his charge, and the necessity of
going slowly and gently in rough places. The
man reached the post hospital in safety and re-
covered ; and from the day of his recovery Two-
Bits had another devoted friend and guardian.

II.

HIS SECOND RACE.

As the Fourth of July, 1865, approached, in
the dearth of otlier material and the abundance
of horses, the citizens of Prcscott determined
to ofter a series of horse and pony races as attrac-
tions, and there was at once considerable excite-
ment in horse circles in consequence. Officers
of the garrison caught the excitement and vied
with the ranchmen and miners, and began look-
ing over their favorites with a view to capturing
the various bridles, saddles, etc., offered as prizes.

One race was to be for American horses only,
this name being used to distinguish the cavalry
horses and those brought from the East, from
the mustangs, Texas ponies, and broncos. The
gait for all horses was to be a run, under the
saddle, over distances ranging from five hundred
to eight hundred yards, according to whether
the contestants belonged to one or the other
of the classes mentioned, — the longer distance
being for the American horses.

A few days after the conditions of the race
were published, Cain proposed that I should
enter Two- Bits for the eight-hundred-yards race,
assuring me that if I would do so I was sure to
win the prize. But I pooh-poohed the sug-
gestion at once, and even ridiculed Cain for his
folly in imagining for a moment that Two-Bits
could compete with such steeds as were already
entered. I soon found that I had plunged the
ambitious fifer into the depths of despair. For
several days he moped about his duties in a

silent and dejected manner, until his evident
misery aroused my compassion. So one morn-
ing after he had completed the housework of
my quarters, I asked him to remain a few mo-
ments, and then referred to the subject, which I
knew had full possession of his thoughts, with
the question :

" You do not suppose, Cain, that so old a
horse as Two- Bits would stand any chance in
this race ? "

" He would, jist, sor ! " he answered with em-
phasis.

" But he is very old, Cain. He must be
twenty, at the very least."

" Yis, sor, and he grows faster as he grows
older, sor."

Evidently there was no use in arguing against
Two-Bits, with a person so prejudiced as Cain;
but I continued :

" Your love for your old favorite, Cain, mis-
leads you as to his capabilities. I know him to
be easy and free under the saddle, and the best
horse I ever rode, but it is not reasonable to
expect him, at his age, to beat young horses,
after all the ill-treatment he has undergone."

'■ I wish the Liftinent would jist give me the
thrial of him, that 's all. There 's not a baste in
these parts can bate him ! "

" But you are not reasonable about this, Cain.
Because Two-Bits won a race five years ago,
it does not follow that he can do so now. There
is that fine black of King Woolsey's — what pos-
sible chance is there that any horse in Arizona
can take the lead of him ? "

" That 's jist it, sor. The consate of that man
Woolsey nades a rebuke, sor. Two-Bits can
give him one, asy. I know the horse, sor. If
the Liftinent will pardon an ould soldier for mak-
in' so bould as to sit up an opinion ag'inst his,
I beg lave to remoind him that I have rode the
winning horse at miny a race in the ould coun-
try and in this; and while 1 'm free to admit
that Two-Bits does not aquel the racin'-stock
o' the quality and gintry, he is far beyant any-
thing this side o' the wather."

" Well, Cain, leave me now to consider the
matter, and call again in an hour."

Left alone, I was not long in coming to the
conclusion that the soldier should be indulged
in his wish to enter Two-Bits for the race. Ac-

A STORY OF A HORSE.

cordingly, when the fifer returned for my de-
cision, I said :

" I am going to allow you to run him, Cain.
I look upon the horse as your discovery. He
has cost me literally nothing."

" Thank you, sor, and you '11 win the prize,"
said Cain.

" No ; I don't care for the prize. I will pay
the entrance fee, and if you win the race the prize
shall be your own."

When I recalled the many evidences I had
had of Two-Bits' speed in pursuit of Indians, and
in retreats when the Indian in turn was pursuer,
and my life had depended upon his gait and his
endurance, I could not but hope he would win.

On the day of the race I sat, by no means a
calm and disinterested spectator, on a bench
near the goal. After the race of ponies, mus-
tangs, and broncos, came the principal race —
that of American horses. I will spare the
reader details of the race further than to say
that, to the surprise of everybody but Joe Cain, it
ended as at Fort Craig. Two-Bits came in with
dilated nostrils and blazing eyes, amid the thun-
dering cheers of the soldiers, fully two lengths
ahead. Cain led him back to the fort, escorted
the whole distance by admiring blue-coats. At
the stables, Cain sat on an inverted grain-ineas-
ure and told over for the hundredth time the
w'ay the horse received the name Two-Bits, and
how he had discovered the old horse, friend-
less and broken down, in the Whipple corral,
and having built him up to his present beau-
tiful proportions, had once more ridden him to
victory.

I have related the foregoing incidents in an
attempt to interest the reader in the personality
of my horse. He is the hero of the story —
the men are only accessories. The incident to
which all this is a preface must have a chapter
by itself.

III.

HE RUNS COURIEK.

In the fall of the year 1865, the Indian
troubles became so serious that only with the
greatest difficulty could we maintain our com-
munications with the outer world. Every little
while an express-rider would fail to make his

appearance when due, and an expedition sent
in search of him often found his body in the
road, in some rugged defile or thick chaparral,
stripped, scalped, and disfigured, the contents
of the express-pouch scattered for yards around,
all letters broken open, and the illustrated papers
torn into shreds, while the newspapers were sim-
ply thrown aside. The peril became so great
in time that single riders could not be hired for
the service, and at last only cavalrymen in par-
ties of five were sent on this dangerous duty.
Even numbers was not always a protection, as
I once found when, sent to look for a missing
express, I discovered all the men dead together.

On the 20th of October a dispatch was re-
ceived with accompanying instructions that it
should be forwarded without delay to Santa Fe.
Accordingly, I advertised for an express-rider,
offering the highest pay allowed for the service.
The route on the northeast was not considered
to be so dangerous as those lying to the east,
south, or west. Still there was no response to
my offer, and I began to consider the expediency
of asking for a detail from the cavalry, when a
proposition came from an unexpected quarter.
The man whom I have before mentioned as
having been wounded during an Indian expe-
dition and brought to the fort on the back of
Two-Bits, came into my office, and offered to
carry the dispatch, provided I would let him
ride Two- Bits.

This man's name was Porter. He was a
Londonderry Irishman by birth and was now
sergeant in the infantry company. Years after-
wards we learned that he was of gentle descent,
and a graduate of Edinburgh University. He
was a handsome, soldierly fellow, of refined
features, gentlemanly bearing, good height, and
undoubted courage. He entered my office, as
1 before stated, and said he would take the
mail to Fort Wingate if I would lend him
Two-Bits.

" But Two-Bits is my private property, Ser-
geant, and is not subject to such service," I
replied.

" I know that, sir; but he has many qualities
which fit him for it."

" Not more than half a dozen other horses in
the corral, Sergeant."

" No horse has just his qualities, sir. He is

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

especially fitted for dangerous service such
as this. He is fleet, he will not whinny nor
do anything to attract attention in an Indian
country. He will not desert his rider if turned
loose, and he will not be stampeded if his rider
sleeps while he grazes."

" You seem to liave studied his character
well."

" Yes, sir, I know Two-Bits very well ; but
not better than yourself, or most of the men of
the garrison. He is a remarkable horse. He is
well drilled and he is very intelligent. He always
seems to understand what is expected of him."

" But really. Sergeant, I do not like to let
him go on such a trip. I fear I should never
see him again. The trip would be a tremendous
strain upon the old horse."

" He shall have the tenderest care, sir. I
will treat him as he deserves."

" I have no doubt of that. Sergeant. He
would be treated well by all of our men. In
fact, he is always made a pet of by every one.
I will think of it. Call again later."

After Sergeant Porter went out, I walked over
to the quarters of the commanding officer and
told him of the proposition. He at once fell in
with the plan and advised me to let the horse
go. He said the horse could not be in better
hands, and that doubtless he would go through
safely, without fatigue, and return to me in a few
weeks. He said he would convene a board of
officers to appraise the horse, so that if he should
be lost I could put in a claim for reimbursement.
I agreed, and next day the board sat and ap-
praised the value of my five-dollar horse at
nearly $200 in gold.

On the morning of the 25th of October, Ser-
geant Porter, mounted on Two-Bits, rode out of
Fort Whipple, amid the hearty good wishes and
handshakes of men and officers. He carried
a mail pouch weighing twenty pounds, an over-
coat and three blankets, a carbine and two re-
volvers, and six days' rations.

The adventures of horse and rider, after we
saw them disappear behind the " red rocks," five
miles below the fort, were related to me in 1867,
at Fort Sumner, New Mexico, by Porter, who
had in the mean time been appointed a lieuten-
ant in the army. I had not seen him since he
started on his journey.

For three days the ride was without incident
worth relating. On the fourth he did not leave
his stopping-place until one o'clock in the after-
noon. At two o'clock he found himself on the
crest of a range of hills overlooking a plain
which extended right and left almost to the
horizon, and in front at least twenty miles, to
the broken and hilly country beyond. It was as
level as the surface of a lake. From the edge
of the plain stretched the nan-ow thread of the
Military road, straight across to the foot-hills
beyond. The road down the declivity to the
plain being rough and stony, the sergeant dis-
mounted and followed his horse, allowing him
to pick his way and take his own gait. When
he arrived at the foot of the range, he noticed
that there lay between him and the plain, and
parallel to its edge, a long low ridge. He halted
in the ravine formed by the ridge and the foot-
hills to tighten girth and straps and readjust his
luggage before taking the road over the plain.
While engaged in this operation, Porter noticed
that, at the point where he stood, the road
divided into two; these passed over the ridge
a hundred yards apart, descended on the other
side, and met again in one road about a mile
out on the plain. The reason for this division
was that the left-hand road had become badly
gullied in one of the rare and violent rainfalls
peculiar to that region, and the wagoners had
made a new one to avoid its roughness.

Finishing the adjustment of the saddle and its
attached parcels, the sergeant still postponed re-
mounting, and followed his horse slowly up the
ridge, leaving the choice of roads to the animal,
it being a matter of indifference to a horseman
whether the road was gullied or not. Two-Bits
took the left-hand road, and moved leisurely up
the slope, raising his head high as he approached
the crest to look beyond it. Suddenly he stopped
and stood perfectly rigid, his ears set forward
and his eyes fixed upon some object, evidendy
in alarm. Porter crept carefully forward and
looked beyond the ridge. Behind a mass of
granite bowlders which skirted the left of the
other road, four Indian ponies could be seen
picketed. Evidendy their riders were among
the rocks watching for the express-rider they
had seen descending from the range. They
naturally supposed that he would pass along the

-9-]

A STORY OF A HORSE.

usually traveled road. Nothing but the acci-
dent that Two-Bits took the old road prevented
the sergeant from falling into the ambuscade
and ending his life there. From the old road
the ponies were plainly visible in a nook among
the bowlders ; from the newer road they could
not have been seen.

The sergeant backed Two-Bits sufficiently to
put him out of sight of the Indians. When all
was ready, Porter patted the old horse affection-
ately on the neck and said, " Now, old fellow,

he could reload without a second's delay, and,
aiming carefully, fired, killing the pony instantly.
He reloaded, and as an Indian sprang from
cover to see where the shot came from, he caught
the second bullet and fell across the dead pony.
Not another Indian showed himself until Porter
was well out upon the plain ; then he heard
the shrill staccato of the Navajo war-whoop,
and glancing backward over his shoulder saw
three Indians pursuing at the top of their ponies'
speed. Two-Bits threw himself into the task

/\sww^^Ax,

"'will the I.IFTINENT I'LAEE TO COME OLT AND LVSPICT HIS HORSE?'

everything depends upon your legs." Porter
always maintained that Two-Bits understood
the coming struggle as fully as he did himself
When all was completed, Porter mounted and
rode slowly over the ridge and slowly down the
opposite slope. He was anxious that the Indians
should not discover him until he should be well
beyond the gullies in the road. These he passed
safel\-, and, as he rose to the level ground beyond,
he noticed that one of the mustangs in the bowl-
ders was holding his head high, watching his
movements. It occurred to the sergeant that
to kill a pony would be equal to killing an In-
dian. He took a cartridge in his palm, so that
Vol. XVII.— 5.

of running away from the mustangs with all the
elasticity and grace that had distinguished him
on the racecourse, and had alwa}'s led to vic-
tory. He settled down to a long and steady
pace which promised soon to leave his pursuers
far behind. The soldier was beginning to con-
gratulate himself upon his wisdom in insisting
upon having Two-Bits for his service. With every
spring the old horse seemed to be fast widen-
ing the distance between the Indians and their
intended victim ; and this continued for about
half a dozen miles, when Porter reluctantly ob-
served that no further change in his favor was
evident. In fact, it soon became evident that

A STORY OF A HORSE.

[Nov.

the Navajos were slowly and surely closing up
on him.

This was not at all strange. Two- Bits was an
American horse, accustomed in garrison and
camp to his twelve pounds of grain daily; a
kind of horse that will invariably run down in
flesh on a grazing diet. The mustangs lived en-
tirely upon grass and grew fat and kept in good
condition even when subjected to the roughest
usage. Two-Bits was heavily loaded and had
tasted no grain for four days ; the mustangs were
lightly mounted and filled with their accustomed
forage. Two-Bits was old and the mustangs were
young. The odds were decidedly against the
veteran war-horse ; but he kept on with his long
l)0werful gallop, while the Indian ponies came
on with a short, quick, tireless clatter which
never changed its cadence and threatened to
overtake the sergeant before he could gain the
shelter of the hills, still many miles away.

The flight and pursuit over the plain had to
be confined closely to the road. Outside of the
track the vegetation would seriously wound and
disable an animal attempting to go through its
spiked obstructions.

At last an arrow flew between Porter's shoul-
der and ear. Turning in his saddle, he fired,
breaking the leading Navajo's arm and causing
him to fall into the road, while his riderless pony
stopped by the wayside and began at once to
graze, .-^s the sergeant dropped his carbine by
his right side to place a new cartridge in the
breech, an arrow struck his right hand, his fingers
relaxed, and the precious weapon dropped into
the road. He could not stop to recover it, — it
would be useless with a badly wounded hand, —
so he plunged wearily on, looking at the broken
fingers and flowing blood, with his first serious
misgivings. His chances of getting out of this
scrape alive seemed desperate indeed. With his
skill as a marksman, he had all along thought
that he should soon pick oft" all his enemies ; but
with no carbine and a useless right hand the
chances were much against him.

Resolving, like a brave man, to die game.
Porter hastily bound his handkerchief about his
wounded hand, and drew a revolver in his left.
Turning, he fired shot after shot, but without
effect except to keep the two Indians hanging
over the sides of their horses, until, conceiving

a contempt for his inaccurate aim, they sat up-
right, and sent arrow after arrow toward him.
The distance was still too great for these primi-
tive missiles to be fully eftective, but two pierced
his shoulders, and the shafts of three could be
seen switching up and down in the quarters of
Two-Bits as he galloped wearily on. A lucky
shot caused one of the Indians to rein up sud-
denly, dismount, and .sit down by the roadside.
The last Navajo kept on, however, with all the
eagerness with which he began the chase ap-
parently unabated, and soon he wounded Por-
ter again, and this time along the ribs. In very
desperation, the sergeant then suddenly turned
his horse to the right-about, bore down quickly
upon the Indian pony, and before his rider had
time to recover from his surprise at the unex-
pected attack he sent his last remaining shot
crashing into the brain of the mustang. The
little horse swerved out of the track and fell
headlong into a cactus, and before the Indian
could extricate himself Two-Bits and his rider
had wheeled and were out of arrow-range.

The pursuit was at an end, and it would no
doubt be pleasant to the reader of this story of
a horse if I could say that the sergeant and
Two-Bits were now safe. But they were very
far from safe. When well beyond any chance
of pursuit from the last and ponyless Navajo,
Porter slid painfully from his saddle to examine
into his own and his horse's injuries. No arrows
were left in his own body, but he was badly
lacerated and had bled profusely, until he was
scarcely able to stand. The horse had received
seven wounds, and three arrows were still stick-
ing in his flesh. These were not deeply in, and
were easily removed ; but a long cut along the
ribs, from hind to fore quarters, had torn the
skin badly and still bled profusely. Porter
bound up his own wounds with fair success,
but he could do nothing for the horse. Neither
could he relieve Two-Bits by walking. The
horse refused a ration of hard bread offered
him, and there remained nothing to be done
but for the sergeant to drag himself painfully
into the saddle and resume his journey. Re-
mounting was not accomplished without great
difticulty, and only by the aid of a date-tree
which forked, conveniently, two feet from the
ground. Speed was now out of the question,

A STORY OF A HORSE.

and the horse simply hmped along at a feeble
walk. The excitement of the chase was over,
and the nerves of both man and beast had lost
their tension.

When the pursuit ended, Porter found him-
self near the border of the plain from which the

horse in a desert country without water might
unfit him for further eftbrt, and without a horse
there was no hope for the man to pass over the
long remaining distance to Wingate. It was this
very hopelessness which caused the soldier to
press on into the increasing darkness, putting

LAST DA^H.

road led up into a rugged and hilly country, off a halt which he felt must be final. Still

and it was already growing toward twilight, creeping slowly along, he at last surmounted

The miles stretched wearily out, and there a height overlooking a narrow valley, and on

seemed no better prospect than to dismount the other side saw a bright fire burning, which

and try to find rest, even though rest for the occasionally disappeared and reappeared as if

A STORY OF A HORSE.

(Nov.

persons were passing before it. The hopes ot
the soldier were at once revived at the prospect
of reaching friends and assistance, but the hopes
were as quickly depressed by the fear that the
fire might be that of an enemy, — probably a
party of Navajos, for this was their country.
But even a foe might prove to be a friend to
one in his plight, so he pressed on.

Two-Bits was so weak that he hardly more
than moved, and hours elapsed before the valley
was crossed and he brought his rider near the
fire. He was ascending the hillside on which the
fire was burning when the rattle of halter-chains
over feed-bo.xes — a sound familiar to a soldier's
ears — came plainly through the evening air,
and Porter knew that he was near a Go\ern-
ment train. With the welcome sound he grew
faint and fell from the saddle to the ground
senseless. Two- Bits kept on into camp, ap-
proached the camp-fire, looked into the faces of
the guard which sat about its cheerful blaze,
turned, as if to retrace his steps, staggered, fell,
and died.

The unexpected appearance of a horse, sad-
dled and bridled, a mail-bag strapped on his
back, his saddle covered with blood, his body
wounded in half a dozen places, his sudden fall
and tleath, started the whole camp into activity.
The militar)- escort was soon under arms, horses
and mules were quickly saddled, and lanterns
were soon hurrying down the road. The search-
ers had not far to go before they came upon the
sergeant, lying apparently lifeless. He was taken
into camp, tenderly cared for, and next day taken
to Fort Wingate, the place for which the train
was bound.

Was Two-Bits left to be food for the coyotes ?
No. Sergeant Porter told his story, and the
command being of the company stationed at
Fort Craig at the time of the first race men-
tioned in these columns, it was not difficult to
find a few sympathetic old soldiers who yielded
to the earnest request of the wounded express-
rider and buried his equine friend and comrade
deeply, and heaped a mound of stones over his
grave.

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA,

By Walter Camp,

The rules governing American foot-ball are
an outgrowth or development of the English
Rugby foot-ball game, the very name of which
at once recalls to every reader the well-beloved
"Tom Brown."

The credit of introducing these rules among
our colleges belongs entirely to Harvard, who
had learned them from the Canadians and were
at the outset won by the superior opportunities
offered by the new game for strategy and gen-
eralship as well as for clever individual playing.
After Harvard had played for a year or two with
our northern neighbors, Yale was persuaded to
adopt these English rules, and in 1876 the first
match between two American collesre teams un-

der the Rugby Union rules was played. Since
that time the code has undergone many changes,
the greater number being made necessary by the
absolute lack of any existing foot-ball lore or
tradition on American soil. The English game
was one of traditions. " What has been done
can be done ; what has not been done must be
illegal," answered any question which was not
fully foreseen in their laws of the game.

For the first few years, our college players
spent their time at conventions in adding rules
to setde vexed problems continually arising, to
which the English rules offered no solution. In
this way the rules rapidly multiplied until the
number was quite double that of the original

J839.1

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

code. Then followed the process of excision,
and many of the old English rules which had
become useless were dropped. During the last
few years the foot-ball law-makers have changed
but two or three rules a year. The method of
making alterations has also been perfected.

In order to avoid the petty dissensions inci-
dent to contests so recent that the wounds of
defeat were yet tender, an Advisory Committee
of graduates has been appointed and all altera-
tion of rules is in their hands. They meet once
a year to propose any changes that appear to
them necessary. They submit such propositions
to the Intercollegiate Association for discussion
and approval. Provided this Association ap-
prove of them, they are then, by the Secretary
of the Advisory Committee, incorporated in the
rules for the following season. In case the Asso-
ciation take exception to any, they are returned
to the Advisory Board, and if they then receive
the votes of four out of the five members, they
become laws in spite of the disapproval of the
Association. This has never yet occurred, nor
has there been anything to mar the harmony
existing between the two bodies.

No change, then, is possible unless suggested
by a body of men, not immediate participants
in the sport, who have had the benefits of past
experience. This most excellent state of afiairs
was the result of suggestions emanating from
an informal conference held some years ago in
New York, at which were present members of
the Faculties of Harvard, Princeton, and Yale.
These gentlemen were at that time carefully
watching the growth of the sport, and were pre-
pared to kill or encourage it according to
its deserts. Their suggestions have rendered
most substantial aid to the game, and made
its law-making the most conservative and thor-
oughly well considered of all rules governing
college contests.

" How does the English game differ from the
American ? " is a very common question, and in
answering it one should first state that there are
two games in England, — one " the Rugby "
and the other " the Association." These dif-
fer radically, the Association being more like
the old-fashioned sport that existed in this
country previous to the introduction of the
Rugby. In the Association game the players

can not run with the ball in their hands or
arms, but move it rapidly along the ground
with their feet — "dribble the ball," as their
expression has it. Of course, then, a com-
parison between our game and the Associ-
ation is out of the question. To the Rugby
Union, however, our game still bears a striking
resemblance, the vital point of difference being
the outlet to the " scrimmage " or " down." In
the English game, when the ball is held and put
down for what they call a '• scr//mmage," both
sides gather about in a mass, and each endeav-
ors by kicking the ball to drive it in the direc-
tion of the opponents' goal. Naturally, there is
a deal of pushing and hacking and some clever
work with the feet, but the exact exit of the ball
from the " scrummage " can not be predicted or
anticipated, ^^'hen it does roll out, the man
who is nearest endeavors to get it and make a
run or a kick. The American scrimmage, while
coming direcdy from the English play, bears
now no similarity to it. Instead of an indis-
criminate kicking struggle we have the snap-
back and quarter-back play. The snap-back
rolls the ball back with his foot ; the quarter
seizes it and passes it to any man for whom the
ball is destined in the plan of the play. In other
respects, with the exception of greater liberties
in assisting a runner, it would not be a very
difficult task to harmonize our game with the
British.

While the game has in the last ten years grown
rapidly in popular favor, it woukl not be fair to
suppose that all of the ten or fifteen thousand
spectators who gather to witness one of the great
matches have clearly defined ideas of the rules
which govern the contest. Many of the tech-
nical terms they hear used are also Greek to
them, and it would undoubtedly add to their
enjoyment of the game to give a few clues to
chief plays of interest.

While awaiting the advent of the players,
one looks down on the field and sees a rect-
angular space a little over a hundred yards
long and a trifle more than fifty yards wide,
striped transversely with white lines, which give
it the aspect of a huge gridiron. These lines
are five yards apart, and their only purpose is to
assist the referee in judging distances. There is
a rule which says that in three attempts a side

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Nov.

must advance the ball five, or take it back twenty-
yards under penalty of surrendering it to the
opponents. The field is therefore marked out
with these five-yard lines, by means of which
the referee can readily tell the distance made at
each attempt. The gallows-like arrangements at
the ends of the field are the goal posts, and in
order to score a goal the ball must be kicked
over a cross-bar extending between the posts by
any kind of a kick e.xcept a "punt." That is,
it must be by a "drop kick," which is made by
letting the ball fall from the hand and kicking
it as it rises from the ground ; by a " place
kick," which is from a position of rest on the
ground ; or finally even from a rolling kick. A
"punt" is a kick made by dropping the ball
from the hand and kicking it before it strikes
the ground, and such a kick can under no cir-
cumstances score a goal. Scoring is only pos-
sible at the ends of the field, and all the work
one sees performed in the middle of the ground
is only the struggle to get the ball to the goal.

There are two ways in which points may be
made : By kicking the ball, as above described,
over the goal, and by touching it down behind
the goal line. A "safety " is made when a side
are so sorely pressed that they carr\' the ball
behind their own goal line, and not when it is
kicked there by the enemy. In the latter case,
it is called a " touchback," and does not score

" down." Such a play entitles his side to a " try-
at-goal," and if they succeed in kicking the ball
over the bar, then the goal only scores and not
the touchdown; but if they miss the try, they
are still entitled to the credit of the touchdown.
A goal can also be made without the interven-
tion of a touchdown ; that is, it may be kicked
direct from the field, either from a drop kick or
a place kick, or even when it is rolling or bound-
ing along the ground. This latter, however, is
very unusual. In the scoring, the value of a field
kick goal is only five, of a goal kicked from
a touchdown, six; if the touchdown does not
result in a goal it counts four, and a safety by
the opponents counts the other side two.

When the game begins, the ball is placed in
the center of the field and put in play, or kicked
off, as it is termed, by the side which has lost
the choice of goal. From that time forward,
during forty-five minutes of actual play, the two
sides struggle to make goals and touchdowns
against each other. Of the rules governing their
attempts to carry the ball to the enemies' quarters,
the most important are those of off side and on
side. In a general way it may be said that " off
side " means between the ball and the oppo-
nents' goal, while " on side " means between the
ball and one's own goal. A player is barred
from taking part in the play or handling the
ball, when in the former predicament. When a

^lUARTER-BACK TAKING THE BALL.

either for or against the side making it. A
"touchdown " is made when a player carries the
ball across his oppoueiits' goal line and there has
it do\vn, /. <?., either cries " down " or puts it on
the ground ; or if he secures the ball after it has
crossed his opponents' goal line and then has it

ball has been kicked by a player, all those of
his side who are ahead of him, that is, between
him and his opponents' goal, are off side, and
e^•en though the ball go over their heads they
are still off side until the ball has been touched
by an opponent, or until the man who kicked it

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL I.\ AMERICA.

has run up ahead of them. Either of these two
events puts them on side again. Any player who
is on side may run with or kick the ball, and his
opponents may tackle him whenever he has the
ball in his arms. It is fair for them to tackle
him in any way except below the knees. They
must not, however, throttle or choke him, nor
can players use the closed fist. The runner may
push his opponents off with his open hand or
arm, in any way he pleases, and abilit\- to do this
well goes far toward making a successful runner.

When a player having the ball is tackled and
fairly held so that his advance is checked, and
he can not pass the ball, the player tackling
him cries out " Held ! " The runner must say
" Down," and the ball is then put on the ground
for a scrimmage. Any player of the side which
had possession of the ball can then put it in play.
Usually the " snap-back," as he is called, does
this work. He places the ball on the ground,
and then with his foot (or hand) rolls the ball
back, or kicks it forward or to one side, generally
for a player of his own side to seize. When the
ball is rolled or snapped back, the man who first
receives it is called the quarter-back, and he
can not run forw^ard with it. ^^'he^, however,
it is kicked sideways or ahead, any one except
the snap-back and the opposing player opposite
him can run with it.

" Free kicks " are those where the opponents
are restrained by rule from interfering with the ball
or player until the kick is made. At the com-
mencement of the game, the side which has lost
the choice of goals has a free kick from the cen-
ter of the field ; and when a goal has been scored
the side which has lost it has a free kick from the
same location. Any player who fairly catches
the ball on the fly from an opponent's kick, has a
free kick, provided he makes a mark with his heel
on the spot of the catch. A side which has made
a touchdown has a free kick at the goal, and a
side which has made a safety or a touchback
has a free kick from any spot behind the twenty-
five-yard line. This line is the fifth white line
from their goal, and upon that mark the oppo-
nents may line up.

A violation of any rule is called a foul, and
the other side has the privilege of putting the
ball down where the foul was made. Certain
fouls are punished by additional penalties. A

pla}"er is immediately disqualified for striking
with the closed fist or unnecessary roughness. A
side loses twenty-five yards, or the opponents
may have a free kick, as a penalty for throttling,
tripping up, or tackling below the knees. For
oft-side play a side loses five )-ards. A player
may pass or throw the ball in any direction ex-
cept toward his opponents' goal. When the ball
goes out of bounds at the side, it is "put in" at
the spot where it crossed the line by a player of
the side first securing the ball. He bounds or
throws the ball in ; or he may, if he prefers, walk
out with it any distance not greater than fifteen
paces, and put it down for a scrimmage.

.o -'^^^^i,-

A FAIR TACKLE.

Of the two individuals one sees on the field in
citizen's dress, one is the umpire and the other the
referee. These two gentlemen are selected to see
that the rules are observed and to settle any ques-
tions arising during the progress of the game.
It is the duty of the umpire to decide all points
directly connected with the players' conduct,
while the referee decides questions of the posi-
tion or progress of the ball. The original rules
provided that the captains of the two sides
should settle all disputes; but this, at the very
outset, was .so manifesdy out of the question that
a provision was made for a referee. Then, as
the captains had their hands full in commanding
their teams, two judges were appointed, and it
was the duty of these judges to make all claims
for their respective sides. These judges soon be-
came so importunate with their innumerable
claims as to harass the referee beyond all en-
durance. The next step, therefore, was to do
away with the judges and leave the referee sole

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Nov.

master of the field. Even then the referee found
so much that it was impossible for him to watch,
that it was decided to appoint a second man,
called an umpire, to assist him. This umpire
assumed the responsibility of seeing that the
players committed no fouls, thus leaving the
referee's undivided attention to be devoted to
following the course of the ball.

This has proved so wonderfully successful
that the base-ball legislators are seriously con-
sidering the question of adopting a similar system
of dividing the work between two umpires.

gradual development from the English Rugby,
are peculiarly interesting, showing as they do
the inventive faculty of our college players.
The way in which the quarter-back play was
suggested and perfected illustrates this very
strongly. Our players began exactly as the Eng-
lishmen, by putting the ball on the ground, clos-
ing around it, and then kicking until it rolled
out somewhere. In the first season of this style
of scrimmage play, they made the discovery that
far from being an advantage to kick the ball
through, it often resulted in a great disadvan-

There are two general divisions of players,
the " rushers " or " forwards," so called because
they constitute the front rank of the foot-ball
army ; and the backs, called the quarter-back,
the half-backs or halves, and the full-back or
goal-tend. The quarter has been already de-
scribed. The halves, of whom there are two,
play several yards behind the rushers, and do
the kicking or artillery work. The goal-tend is
really only a third half-back, his work being
almost the same as that of the halves.

The changes the game has undergone in its

tage, for it gave the opponents a chance to se-
cure the ball and make a run. The players,
therefore, would station a man a short distance
behind the scrimmage, and the rushers in front
would manage to so cleverly assist the kicking
of the opponents as to let the ball come through
directly to this player, who had then an excellent
opportunit}- to run around the mass of men be-
fore they realized that the ball had escaped.

Soon an adventurous spirit discovered that he
could so place his foot upon the ball that by
pressing suddenly downwards and backwards

iSSg.]

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

with liis toe he would drag or snap the ball to
the man behind him. At first, naturally, the
snap-back was not sufficiently proficient to be
always sure in his aim, but it did not take long
to make the play a very accurate one, and in the
games to-day it is unusual for the snap-back to
fail in properly sending the ball to his quarter.

Originally the quarter was wont to run with or
kick the ball, but now as a rule he passes it to
one of the halves or to a rusher who has come
behind him, instead of making the run himself.
The quarter then directs the course of the play,
so that scientific planning is possible ; whereas
in the old method the element of chance was
far greater than that of skill.

One frequently hears old players speak of
the " block game " and its attendant evils. This
was a system of play by which an inferior team
was enabled to escape defeat by keeping con-
tinual possession of the ball, while actually
making but a pretense of play. So great did
the evil become, that in 1882 a rule was made,
which has already been mentioned, to the effect
that a side must make an advance of five
yards or retreat ten* in three scrimmages. The
penalty for not doing this is the loss of the ball
to the opponents. A kick is considered equiva-
lent to an advance, even though the sarne side
should, by some error of the opponents, regain
the ball when it comes down. The natural
working of this rule, as spectators of the game
will readily see, is to cause a side to make one
or two attempts to advance by the running style
of play, and then, if they have not made the
necessary five yards, to pass the ball back to a
half for a kick. The wisdom of this play is evi-
dent. If they find they must lose the ball, they
wish it to fall to their opponents as far down the
field as possible, and so they send it by a long
kick as near the enemies' goal as they can.

One other rule, besides this one, has had a de-
velopment worthy of particular attention. It is
the one regarding the value of the points scored.
At first, goals only were scored. Then touch-
downs were brought in, and a match was decided
by a majority of these, while a goal received a
certain equivalent value in touchdowns. Then
the scoring of safeties was introduced ; but only
in this way, that in case no other point was
scored a side making four less safeties than their

Vol. XVII.— 6. • This was altered r

opponents should win the match. A goal kicked
from a touchdown had always been con.sidered
of greater value than a field-kick goal, but it
was not until the scoring had reached the point
of counting safeties, that it was decided to give
numerical values to the various points in order
that matches might be more surely and satisfac-
torily decided. From this eventually came the
method of scoring as mentioned earlier in this
article.

A few diagrams illustrati\e of the general
l^osition of the players when executing various
maneuvers will assist the reader in obtaining an
insight into the plays. As there are no hard
and fast rules for these positions they are de-
pendent upon the judgment of each individual
captain; nevertheless the following diagrams
indicate in a general way the formations most
common.

The first diagram shows the measurements
of the field as well as the general position of two
teams just previous to the kick-oft', or opening
of the game. While the front rank are all called
forwards or rushers, distinctive names are given
to the individual positions. These also are noted
on this first diagram.

The forwards of the side which has the kick,
"line up" even with the ball, while their oppo-
nents take up their positions ten yards away.
They are not permitted to approach nearer
until the ball is touched with the foot. For-
merly, when it was the practice at kick-oft" to
send the ball as far down the field as possible,
the opponents were wont to drop two forwards,
near the ends of the line, back a few feet ; thus
providing for a short kick. The quarter took his
place in a straight line back from the ball some
sixty or seventy feet, while the two halves and
the back stood sufficiently distant to be sure of
catching a long kick. The positions of the side
kicking the ball were not so scattered. All their
forwards and the quarter stood even with the
ball, ready to dash down the field ; while the
halves and back stood only a short distance be-
hind them, because as soon as the ball was sent
down the field they would be in proper places
to receive a return kick from the opponents.

The kick-off of the present day is more apt to
be a "dribble," or a touching the ball with the
foot and then passing or running with it. The

cently to twenty yards.

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IX AMERICA.

[Nov.

result of this is that the opponents mass more
compactly, the halves and quarter not playing
far down the field and the rushers at the ends
not dropping back. The side having the kick,

the man who is to play the ball. Diagram 2
illustrates the position at the moment of the kick-
oft". The kicker touches the ball with his foot,
picks it up and hands it to the runner who is

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keeping in mind, of course, the particular play
they intend to make, assume positions that shall
the most readily deceive their opponents, if
possible, and yet most favor the success of their
maneuver.

For instance, an opening play quite common
last year was the "wedge" or "V." In dia-
grams 2 and 3 are shown the positions in this
play. As the players "line out" they assume as
nearly as possible the regular formation, in order

I— I

OOOg^'Jo

DIAGRAM 2.

DIAGRAM 3.

that their opponents may not at once become
too certain of their intention. As soon, how-
ever, as play has been called, one sees the rushers
closing up to the center and the player who is
to make the running, dropping in close behind

coming just behind him. The forwards at once
dash forward, making a V-shaped mass of men
just within the angle of wliich trots along the
runner. Diagram 3 shows them at this point.

But tliis wedge no sooner meets tlie opposing
line, than the formation becomes more or less
unsteady, exactly in proportion to the strength
and skill of the opponents. Against untrained
players the wedge moves without great difticulty,
often making twenty or thirty yards before it
is broken. Skillful opponents will tear it apart
much more .speedily.

Now comes the most scientific part of the
play; namely, the outlet for the runner and
ball. There are two ways of successfully mak-
ing this outlet. One is to have a running half-
back moving along outside the wedge, taking
care to be a little behind the runner so that
the ball may be passed to him without com-
mitting the foul of passing it ahead. When
the wedge begins to go to pieces, the ball is
de.\terously thrown out to him and he has an
excellent opportunity for a run, because the
opposing rushers are so involved in breaking the

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

wedge that they can not get after him quickly.
Diagram 4 illustrates this. The second, and by
far the most successful when well played, is for
two of the forwards in the wedge to suddenly
separate and in their separation to push their
opponents aside with their bodies, so that a

o o

DIAGRAM 4. DIAGRAM 5,

pathway is opened for the runner, so he can
dart out with the ball. Diagram 5 shows this.

The wedge formation is a good play from
any free kick, because the opponents are so re-
strained by being obliged to keep behind a certain
spot, that time is given for the wedge to form and
acquire some headway before they can meet it.

The formation of the side which has the ball
in a scrimmage, next occupies our attention.
As stated before in this article, it is customary
for them to make two attempts to advance the

DIAGRAM g.

ball by a run before resorting to a kick. There
is some slight difference in the ways they form
for these two styles of play. Diagram 6 shows
the formation just previous to the run. The
forwards are lined out, blocking their respective
opponents, while the halves and backs generally
bunch somewhat in order to deceive the oppo-
nents as to which man is to receive the ball, as
well as to assist him, when he starts, by blocking
off the first tacklers.

Diagram 7 shows the line of a half-back's run
through the rushers. A and B endeavor, as he
comes, to separate (by the use of their bodies, for
they can not use their hands or arms to assist
their runner) the two rushers in front of them,
that the runner may get through between them.

Diagram 8 shows still another phase of the
running-game, where a rusher runs around be-
hind the quarter, taking the ball from him on
the run and making for an opening on the other
side, or even on the very end.

Diagram 9 shows the formation when, having

DIAGRAM 6.

made two attempts and not having advanced
the ball five nor lost twenty yards, the side pre-
fers to take a kick rather than risk a third fail-
ure, which would give the ball to the opponents
on the spot of the next "down." The forma-
tion is very like that for the run, except that
the distance between the forward line and the
halves is somewhat increased and the three men
are strung out rather more.

Let us now consider the formation of the op-
posing side during these plays. There is but

00000000

DIAGRAM 10.

00000000

DIAGRAM II.

one formation for the opponents in facing the
running-game, and that is according to diagram
10. Of course they alter this whenever they
have the good fortune to discover where the
run is to be made, but this is seldom so evident
as to make much of an alteration in formation
safe. Their forwards line up, and their quarter
goes into the rush-line wherever he finds the
best opening. Their halves stand fairly close
up behind and their back only a little distance
further toward the goal. The formation, after the
two attempts to run have failed, is, however, quite
different in respect to the half-backs and backs.
They at once run rapidly back until they are all
three at a considerable distance from the for-
wards. The back stands as far as he thinks

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Nov.

it possible for the opposing half to kick, under
the most favorable circumstances, while the two
halves stand perhaps forty or fifty feet in advance,
ready to take the ball from a shorter kick. Dia-
gram 1 1 illustrates this.

In a "fair" or putting the ball in from the

ooo^oooo

DIAGRAM 12.

Dl.AGRAM 13.

touch (see diagram 12), the same general forma-
tion prevails as in the ordinary scrimmage, for it
is reall)- nothing more than a scrimmage on the
side of thefield instead of in the middle. It counts
the same as an ordinary " down " in respect to the
necessity of advancing five yards ; that is, if a side
has made one attempt, from a down, to advance
and has carried the ball out of bounds, and
then makes another unsuccessful attempt to
advance but is obliged to have the ball down

again, without accomplishing the five-yard gain,
it must on the next attempt make the distance
or surrender the ball.

After a touchdown has been made, if a try-
at-goal is attempted by a place-kick, the fomia-
rion is somewhat similar to a kick-oft". (See
diagram 13.) The man who is to place the
ball lies flat on his stomach with the ball in his
hands, taking care that until the kicker is ready
it docs not touch the ground, as that permits
the opponents to charge. The forwards line
up even with the ball, ready to run down
when it is kicked, in order that they may have
a chance of getting it, in case he misses the goal.
The other half and the back stand a few feet
behind the kicker. The position of the opponents
in this play is necessarily limited, for they are
obliged to stand behind their goal until the ball
is kicked. The same diagram (13) shows the
position they assume. Their rushers undertake
to run forward and stop the ball, while their
halves and back are ready, in case it misses, to
make a touchback.

These diagrams cover the most important
plays of the game and give one an insight into the
general manipulation of players during match.

ANN LIZY'S PATCHWORK.

Bv Mary E. Wilkins.

Ann Lizv was invited to spend the afternoon
and take tea with her friend Jane Baxter, and
she was ready to set forth about one o'clock.
That was the fashionable hour for children and
their elders to start when they were invited out
to spend the afternoon.

Ann Lizy had on her best muslin delaine
dress, her best embroidered pantalets, her black
silk apron, and her flat straw hat with long blue
ribbon streamers. She stood in the south room
— the sitting-room — before her grandmother,
who was putting some squares of patchwork,
■with needle, thread, and scissors, into a green
silk bag embroidered with roses in bead-work.

"There, Ann Lizy," said her grandmother,
" you may take my bag if you are real careful
of it, and won't lose it. When you get to Jane's
you lay it on the table, and don't have it round
when you 're playin' outdoors."

" Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy. She was look-
ing \vith radiant, admiring eyes at the bag — its
cluster of cunningly -svrought pink roses upon
the glossy green field of silk. Still there was a
serious droop to her mouth ; she knew there
was a bitter to this sweet.

" Now," said her grandmother, " I 've put
four squares of patchwork in the bag; they 're
all cut and basted nice, and you must sew 'em

ANN LIZY S PATCHWORK.

all, over and over, before you play any. Sew 'em
real fine and even, or you '11 have to pick the
stitches out when you get home."

Ann Lizy's radiant eyes faded; she hung her
head. She calculated s\nftly that she could not
finish the patchwork before four o'clock, and
that would leave her only an hour and a half to
eat supper and play with Jane, for she would
have to come home at half-past five. " Can't
I take two, and do the other two to-morrow,
Grandma ? " said she.

Her grandmother straightened herself disap-
provingly. She was a tall, wiry old woman with
strong handsome features showing through her
wrinkles. She had been so energetic all her life,
and done so much work, that her estimation of
it was worn, like scales. Four squares of patch-
work sewed with very fine even stitches had, to
her, no weight at all ; it did not seem like work.

" Well, if a great girl like you can't sew four
squares of patchwork in an artemoon, I would n't
tell of it, Ann Lizy," said she. " I don't know
what you 'd say if you had to work the way I
did at your age. If you can't have time enough
to play and do a little thing like that, you 'd
better stay at home. I ain't goin' to have you
idle a whole arternoon, if I know it. Time 's
worth too much to be wasted that way."

" I 'd sew the others to-morrow," pleaded
Ann Lizy faintly.

" Oh, you would n't do it half so easy to-
morrow; you 've got to pick the currants for the
jell' to-morrow. Besides, that does n't make any
difference. To-day's work is to-day's work,
and it has n't anything to do with to-morrow's.
It 's no excuse for idlin' one day, because you do
work the next. You take that patchwork, and
sit right down and sew it as soon as you get
there — don't put it off — and sew it nice too, or
you can stay at home — just which you hke."

Ann Lizy sighed, but reached out her hand
for the bag. " Now be careful and not lose it,"
said her grandmother, " and be a good girl."

" Yes, ma'am."

•' Don't run too hard, nor go to climbin'
walls, and get your best dress torn."

" No, ma'am."

" And only one piece of cake at tea-time."

" Yes, ma'am."

" And start for home at half-past five."

" Yes, ma'am."

Little Ann Lizy Jennings, as she went down
the walk between the rows of pinks, had a be-
wildered feeling that she had been to Jane
Baxter's to tea, and was home again.

Her parents were dead, and she Hved with
her Grandmother Jennings, who made her child-
hood comfortable and happy, except that at
times she seemed taken ofi' her childish feet by
the energy and strong mind of the old woman,
and so swung a little way through the world in
her wake. But Ann Lizy received no harm
by it.

Ann Lizy went down the road \\ith the bead
bag on her arm. She toed out primly, for she
had on her best shoes. A little girl, whom she
knew, stood at a gate in every-day clothes, and
Ann Lizy bowed to her in the way she had seen
the parson's wife bow, when out making calls in
her best black silk and worked lace veil. The
parson's \vik was young and pretty, and Ann
Lizy admired her. It was quite a long walk to
Jane Baxter's, but it was a beautiful afternoon,
and the road was pleasant, although there were
not many houses. There were green fields and
flowering bushes at the .sides, and, some of the
way, elm-trees arching over it. Ann Lizy would
have been very happy had it not been for the
patchwork. She had already pieced one patch-
work quilt, and her grandmother displayed it to
people with pride, sajing, "Ann Lizy pieced that
before she was eight years old."

Ann Lizy had not as much ambition as her
grandmother, now she was engaged upon her
second quilt, and it looked to her like a checked
and besprigged calico mountain. She kept
dwelling upon those four squares, over and over,
until she felt as if each side were as long as the
Green Mountain.-;. She calculated again and
again how little time she would have to play
with Jane — only about an hour, for she must
allow a half-hour for tea. She was not a swift
sewer when she sewed fine and even stitches,
and she knew she could not finish those squares
before four o'clock. One hourl — and she and
Jane wanted to play dolls, and make wreaths
out of oak-leaves, and go down in the lane after
thimble-berries, and in the garden for goose-
berries— there would be no time for anything!

Ann Lizy's delicate litde face under the straw

ANN LIZY S PATCHWORK.

[Nov.

flat grew more and more sulky and distressed,
her forehead wrinkled, and her mouth pouted.
She forgot to swing her muslin delaine skirts
gracefully, and flounced along hitting the dusty
meadow-sweet bushes.

Ann Lizy was about half-way to Jane Baxter's
house, in a lonely part of the road, when she
opened her bead bag and drew out her pocket-
handkerchief — her grandmother had tucked that
in with the patchwork — and wiped her eyes.
When she replaced the handkerchief, she put it
under the patchwork, and did not draw up the
bag again, but went on, swinging it \'iolently by
one string.

When Ann Lizy reached Jane Baxter's gate,
she gave a quick, scared glance at the bag. It
looked very flat and limp. She did not open
it, and she said nothing about it to Jane. They
went out to play in the garden. There were so
many hollyhocks there that it seemed like a real
flower-grove, and the gooseberries were ripe.

Shortly after Ann Lizy entered Jane Baxter's
house, a white horse and a chaise passed down
the road in the direction from which she had
just come. There were three persons in the
chaise — a gentleman, lady, and little girl. The
lady wore a green silk pelerine, and a green
bonnet with pink strings, and the gentleman a
blue coat and bell hat. The little girl had pretty
long, ligiit curls, and wore a white dress and
blue sash. She sat on a little footstool down in
front of the seat. They were the parson's wife's
sister, her husband, and her little girl, and had
been to visit at the parsonage. The gentleman
drove the white horse down the road, and the
little girl looked sharply and happUy at every-
thing by the way. All at once she gave a little
cry — "Oh, Father, what 's that in the road ?"

She saw Ann Lizy's patchwork, all four squares
nicely pinned together, lying beside the meadow-
sweet bushes. Her father stopped the horse, got
out, and picked up the patchwork.

" Why," said the parson's wife's sister, " some
Htde girl has lost her patchwork ; look, Sally ! "

" She '11 be sorry, won't she ? " said the little
girl whose name was Sally.

The gentleman got back into the chaise, and
the three rode oft" with the patchwork. There
seemed to be nothing else to do ; there were no
houses near and no people of whom to inquire.

Besides, four squares of calico patchwork were
not especially valuable.

"If we don't find out who lost it, I '11 put it
into my quilt," said Sally. She studied the pat-
terns of the calico veiy happily, as they rode
along ; she thought them prettier than anything
she had. One had pink roses on a green ground,
and she thought that especially charming.

Meantime, while Sally and her father and
mother rode away in the chaise with the patch-
work, to Whitefield, ten miles distant, where their
house was, Ann Lizy and Jane played as fast
as they could. It was four o'clock before they
went into the house. Ann Lizy opened her bag,
which she had laid on the parlor-table with the
"Young Lady's Annuals" and " Mrs. Hemans'
Poems." " I s'pose I must sew my patchwork,"
said she, in a miserable guilty Httle voice. Then
she exclaimed. It was strange that, well as she
knew there was no patchwork there, the actual
discovery of nothing at all gave her a shock.

" What 's the matter ? " asked Jane.

" I 've — lost my patchwork," said Ann Lizy.

Jane called her mother, and they condoled
with Ann Lizy. Ann Lizy sat in one of Mrs.
Baxter's rush-bottomed chairs and began to cry.

" Where did you lose it ? " Mrs. Baxter asked.
" Don't cry, Ann Lizy, maybe we can find it."

" I s'pose I — lost it comin'," sobbed Ann Lizy.

"Well, I '11 tell you what 't is," said .Mrs.
Ba.xter; " you and Jane had better run up the
road a piece, and likely as not you '11 find- it ;
and I '11 have tea all ready when you come home.
Don't feel so bad, child, you '11 find it, right
where you dropped it."

But Ann Lizy and Jane, searching carefiflly
along the road, did not find the patchwork where
it had been dropped. " Maybe it 's blown
away," suggested Jane, although there was
hardly wind enough that afternoon to stir a
feather. And the two little girls climbed over
the stone walls, and searched in the fields, but
they did not find the patchwork. Then another
mishap befell Ann Lizy. She tore a three-cor-
nered place in her best muslin delaine, getting
over the wall. When she saw that she felt as
if she were in a dreadful dream. " Oh, what will
Grandma say ! " she wailed.

" Maybe she won't scold," said Jane, consol-
ingly.

ANN LIZYS PATCHWORK.

" Yes, she will. Oh dear ! "

The two little girls went dolefully home to tea.
There were hot biscuits, and honey, and tarts,
and short gingerbread, and custards, but Ann
Lizy did not feel hungry. Mrs. Baxter tried to
comfort her ; she really saw not much to mourn
over, except the rent in the best dress, as four
squares of patchwork could easily be replaced ;
she did not see the true inwardness of the case.

At half-past five, Ann Lizy, miserable and
tear-stained, the three-cornered rent in her best
dress pinned up, started for home, and then —
her grandmother's beautiful bead bag was not to
be found. Ann Lizy and Jane both remembered
that it had been carried when they set out to
find the patchwork. Ann Lizy had meditated
bringing the patchwork home in it.

" Aunt Cynthy made that bag for Grandma,"
said Ann Lizy in a tone of dull despair ; this was
beyond tears.

" Well, Jane shall go with you, and help find
it," said Mrs. Baxter, " and I '11 leave the tea-
dishes and go too. Don't feel so bad, Ann
Lizy, I know I can find it."

But Mrs. Baxter, and Jane, and Ann Lizy,
all searching, could not find the bead bag. " My
best handkerchief was in it," said Ann Lizy.
It seemed to her as if all her best things were
gone. She and Mrs. Baxter and Jane made a
doleful little group in the road. The frogs were
peeping, and the cows were coming home.
Mrs. Baxter asked the boy who drove the cows
if he had seen a green bead bag, or four squares
of jjatchwork ; he stared and shook his head.

Ann Lizy looked like a wilted meadow reed,
the blue streamers on her hat drooped dejectedly,
her best shoes were all dusty, and the three-
cornered rent was the feature of her best muslin
delaine dress that one saw first. Then her little
delicate face was all tear-stains and downward
curves. She stood there in the road as if she
had not courage to stir.

" Now, Ann Lizy," said Mrs. Baxter, " you 'd
better run right home and not worry. I don't
believe your Grandma '11 scold you, when you
tell her just how 't was."

.^.nn Lizy shook her head. " Yes, she will."

"Well, she '11 be worrying about you if you
ain't home before long, and I guess you 'd better
go," said Mrs. Baxter.

Ann Lizy said not another word ; she began
to move dejectedly toward home. Jane and
her mother called many kindly words after her,
but she did not heed them. She kept straight
on, walking slowly until she was home. Her
grandmother stood in the doorway watching for
her. She had a blue-yarn stocking in her hands,
and she was knitting fast as she watched.

"Ann Lizy, where have you been, late as
this ? " she called out as Ann Lizy came up the
walk. " It 's arter six o'clock."

Ann Lizy continued to drag herself slowly
forward, but she made no reply.

" Why don't you speak ? "

Ann Lizy crooked her arm around her face
and began to cry. Her grandmother reached
down, took her by the shoulder, and led her
into the house. " What on airth is the matter,
child .? " said she ; " have you fell down ? "

" No, ma'am."

"What does ail you then? — Ann Lizy Jen-
nings, how come that great three-cornered tear
in your best dress ? "

Ann Lizy sobbed.

" Answer me."

"I — tore it gittin' over — the wall."

" What were you gettin' over walls for in your
best dress ? I 'd like to know what you s'pose
you '11 have to wear to meetin' now. Did n't I
tell you not to get over walls in your best dress ?
— A?ui Lizy Jetinmgs, where is my bead bag? "

"I— lost it."

" Lost my bead bag ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

" How did you lose it, eh ? "

" I lost it when — I was lookin' for — my
patchwork."

" Did you lose your patchwork ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

"When?"

" When I was — goin' over to — Jane's."

" Lost it out of the bag ? "

Ann Lizy nodded, sobbing.

" Then you went to look for it and lost the bag.
Lost your best pocket-handkerchief too ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

Old Mrs. Jennings stood looldng at Ann Lizy.

"All that patchwork, cut out and basted jest
as nice as could be, your best pocket-handker-
chief, and my bead bag lost, and your meetin'

ANN LIZYS PATCHWORK.

[Nov.

dress tore," said she ; " well, you 've done about
enough for one day. Take off your things and
go upstairs to bed. You can't go over to Jane
Baxter's again for one spell, and every mite of
the patchwork that goes into the quilt you 've
got to cut by a thread, and baste yourself, and
to-morrow you 've got to hunt for that patch-
work and that bag till you find 'em, if it takes
you all day. Go right along."

Ann Lizy took off her hat, and climbed meekly
upstairs, and went to bed. She did not say her
pra)'ers ; she lay there and wept. It was about
half-past eight, the air coming through the open
window was loud with frogs, and katydids, and
whippoorwills, and the twilight was very deep,
when Ann Lizy arose and crept downstairs.
She could barely see her way.

There was a candle lighted in the south room,
and her grandmother sat there knitting. Ann
Lizy, a piteous litdc figure in her white night-
gown, stood in the door.

" Well, what is it ? " her grandmother .said, in
a severe voice that had a kindly inflection in it.

" Grandma — "

" What is it ? "

" I lost my patchwork on purpose. I did n't
want — to sew it."

" Lost your patchwork on purpose ! "

" Yes — ma'am," sobbed Ann Lizy.

" Let it drop out of the bag on purpose ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

" Well, you did a dreadful wicked thing then.
Go right back to bed."

Ann Lizy went back to bed and to sleep. Re-
morse no longer gnawed keenly enough at her
clear childish conscience to keep her awake,
now her sin was confessed. She said her pray-
ers and Nvent to sleep. Although the next
morning the reckoning came, the very worst
punishment was over for her. Her grand-
mother held the judicious use of the rod to be
a part of her duty toward her beloved litde or-
phan granddaughter, so she switched Ann Lizy
with a little rod of birch and sent her forth full
of salutary tinglings to search for the bead bag
and the patchwork. All the next week Ann
Lizy searched the fields and road for the miss-
ing articles, when she was not cutting calico
patchwork by a thread and sewing over and
over. It seemed to her that life was made up

of those two occupations, but at the end of a
week the search, so far as the bead bag was
concerned, came to an end.

On Saturday afternoon the parson's wife
called on old Mrs. Jennings. The sweet, gen-
tle young lady in her black silk dress, her pink
cheeks, and smooth waves of golden hair
gleaming through her worked lace veil entered
the north room, which was the parlor, and sat
down in the rocking-chair. Ann Lizy and her
grandmother sat opposite, and they both noticed
at the same moment that the parson's wife held
in her hand — the bead hag ;

Ann Lizy gave a little involuntary "oh"; her
grandmother shook her head fiercely at her,
and the parson's wife noticed nothing. She
went on talking about the pinks out in the yard,
in her lovely low voice.

As soon as she could, old Mrs. Jennings
excused herself and beckoned Ann Lizy to fol-
low her out of the room. Then, while she was
arranging a square of pound-cake and a little
glass of elderberry wine on a tray, she charged
Ann Lizy to say nothing about the bead bag to
the parson's wife. " Mind you act as if you
did n't see it," said she; " don't sit there lookin'
at it that way."

" But it 's your bead bag. Grandma," said
Ann Lizy in a bewildered way.

" Don't you say anything," admonished her
grandmother. " Now carry this tray in, and be
careful you don't spill the elderberry wine."

Poor Ann Lizy tried her best not to look at
the bead bag, while the parson's wife ate pound-
cake, sipped the elderberry wine, and conversed
in her sweet, gracious way ; but it did seem
finally to her as if it were the bead bag instead
of the parson's wife that was making the call.
She kept wondering if the parson's wife would
not say, " Mrs. Jennings, is this your bead
bag ? " but she did not. She made the call and
took leave, and the bead bag was never men-
tioned. It was odd, too, that it was not; for
the parson's wife, who had found the bead bag,
had taken it with her on her round of calls that
afternoon, partly to show it and find out, if she
could, who had lost it. But here, it was driven
out of her mind by the pound-cake and elder-
berry wine, or else she did not think it likely
that an old lady like Mrs. Jennings could have

I389.J

ANN LIZY S PATCHWORK.

owned the bag. Younger ladies than she
usually carried them. However it was, she
went away with the bag.

" Why did n't she ask if it was yours ? " in-
quired Ann Lizy, indignant in spite of her ad-
miration for the parson's wife.

" Hush," said her grandmother. " You mind
you don't say a word out about this, Ann Lizy.
I ain't never carried it, and she did n't suspect."

Now, the bead bag was found after this un-
satisfactory fashion ; but Ann Lizy never went
down the road without looking for the patch-
work. She never dreamed how little Sally Put-
nam, the minister's wife's niece, was in the
mean time sewing these four squares over and
over, getting them ready to go into her quilt.
It was a month later before she found it out,
and it was strange that she discovered it at all.

It so happened that, one afternoon in the
last of August, old Mrs. Jennings dressed her-
self in her best black bombazine, her best bonnet
and mantilla and mitts, and also dressed Ann
Lizy in her best muslin delaine, exquisitely
mended, and set out to make a call on the par-
son's wife. When they arrived they found a
chaise and white horse out in the parsonage yard,
and the parson's wife's sister and family there
on a visit. An old lady, Mrs. White, a friend
of Mrs. Jennings's, was also making a call.

Little Ann Lizy and Sally Putnam were in-
troduced to each other, and Ann Lizy looked
admiringly at Sally's long curls and low-necked
dress, which had gold catches in the sleeves.
They sat and smiled shyly at each other.

" Show Ann Lizy your patchwork, Sally,"
the parson's wife said presently. " Sally has
got almost enough patchwork for a quilt, and
she has brought it over to show me," she added.

Ann Lizy colored to her little slender neck ;
patchwork was nowadays a sore subject with
her, but she looked on as Sally, proud and
smiling, displayed her patchwork.

Suddenly she gave a little cry. There was
one of her squares ! The calico with roses on
a green ground w-as in Sally's patchwork.

Her grandmother shook her head energetic-
ally at her, but old Mrs. White had on her
spectacles, and she, too, had spied the square.

" Why, Miss Jennings," she cried, " that 's
jest like that dress you had so long ago ! "
Vol XVII.— 7.

" Let me see," said Sally's mother quickly.
" Why, yes ; that is the very square you found,
Sally. That is one; there were four of them,
all cut and basted. Why, this little girl did n't
lose them, did she ? "

Then it all came out. The parson's wife was
quick-witted, and she thought of the bead bag.
Old Mrs. Jennings was polite, and said it did
not matter ; but when she and Ann Lizy went
home, they had the bead bag, with the patch-
work and the best pocket-handkerchief in it.

It had been urged that little Sally Putnam
should keep the patchwork, since she had
sewed it, but her mother was not wilhng.

" No," said she, " this poor little girl lost it,
and Sally must n't keep it ; it would n't be right."

Suddenly Ann Lizy straightened herself Her
cheeks were blazing red, but her black eyes
were brave.

" I lost that patchwork on purpose," said
she. " I did n't want to sew it. Then I lost
the bag while I was lookin' for it."

There was silence for a minute.

"You area good girl to tell of it," said Sally's
mother, finally.

Ann Lizy's grandmother shook her head
meaningly at Mrs. Putnam.

" I don't know about that," said she. " Own-
in'-up takes away so}nc of the sin, but it don't
all.

But when she and Ann Lizy were on their
homeward road, she kept glancing down at her
granddaughter's small face. It struck her that
it was not so plump and rosy as it had been.

" I think you 've had quite a lesson by this
time about that patchwork," she remarked.

" Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy.

They walked a little farther. The golden-
rod and the asters were in blossom now, and
the road was bordered with waving fringes of
blue and gold. They came in sight of Jane
Baxter's house.

"You may stop in Jane Baxter's, if you want
to," .said old Mrs. Jennings, "and ask her
mother if she can come over and spend the
day with you to-morrow. And tell her I say
she 'd better not bring her sewing, and she 'd
better not wear her best dress, for you and
she ain't goin' to sew anv, and mebbe you '11
like to go berryin', and play outdoors."

•; ill-'; T r

■■■' ■ v^...'/ \\ 1'" "'' '^'

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWER'S SON.*

By Elizabeth Balch.

BEAUTIFUL old place called
Hinchingbrooke, situated near
the ancient town of Hunting-
don, was in a flutter of ex-
citement one bright sunny
morning two hundred and
eighty-six years ago, in the year 1603.

King James I. of England, with a large retinue
of the nobles of his court, was to visit the more
distant possessions of his kingdom ; and in order
to break the journey from London to the north,
a ver\- long and trying one in those da\s, he had
announced his royal will and pleasure that a
halt should be made over night at Hinching-
brooke, a favorite resting-place for the sovereigns
of that time when making a "royal progress,"
as their journeys were generally called.

With the King was to come the little Prince
Charles, a delicate boy four years old, and this
fact had gi\en old Sir Henry Cromwell, the
" Golden Knight," who was the owner of Hinch-
ingbrooke, more anxiety than anything else con-
nected with the royal visit.

'• His Majesty can ride and hunt, and amuse
himself with the noble game of chess, or with
the sprightly conversation of the fair dames who
will be only too proud to entertain him ; but
how we are to amuse a baby jjrince, is more
than I can imagine."

To every one he met the good knight would
repeat this dismal exclamation; but at last a
happy thought came to his mind, and summon-
ing a lad, he hastily penned a few lines, and
bade the page cany them to his son, Robert the
brewer, in the town of Huntingdon.

" Be off wdth you," the knight cried cheerily
to the page, " and let not the weeds grow be-
tween the stones of the old wall before you are
back again with grandson Oliver," Oliver was
a little boy not much older than the prince him-
self

As the page quickly sped away upon his er-
rand, a well-satisfied expression came over the
countenance of the doughty knight, and he
rubbed his hands contentedly together while
he mused to himself aloud.

* The illustrations of Hinchingbrooke House, and of the old Gateway, are drawn, by permission, from photographs

by A. Maddison, Esq., Huntingdon, England.

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

" Not so badly devised, by my troth. The
lads may take kindly to one another, and if
Oliver makes a friend of the little Charles — who
knows? — a king's son is not half a bad friend
for a young fellow to have."

Flags were flying from the towers and battle-
ments of Hinchingbrooke, while the royal stand-
ard of England floated proudly above the gray
old buildings which formerly had been a nunnery-;
and in the spot where holy women once had
prayed, soldiers in gay uniforms now laughed
and joked, while richly dressed courtiers and
numberless attendants crowded the court-yards
and corridors, and horses in rich trappings filled
the stables. Every part of the establishment

the grand old trees, where perhaps the warmth
of the golden sunshine might bring a more gen-
erous color into the pallid face.

In striking contrast to the delicate prince was
the lad Oliver. Strong and sturdy, with bright
red cheeks and a round fat face healthily browned
by fresh country air, he came gravely and slowly
through the old arched gateway, not in the least
intimidated by the glittering uniforms and gay
attire of all these grand people, and quietly ad-
vanced to the spot where the King stood, hold-
ing the hand of the little Charles.

Sir Henry, the " Golden Knight," with a deep
reverence to his sovereign, presented his grand-
son Oliver. The baby prince took off his velvet

s:^'

^^4

'BE OFF WITH YOU, THE KNIGHT CRIED CHEERILY TO THE PAGE,

.showed signs of unusual life and excitement, all hat with its long white plume, and bowed gra-

being anxious that the King should be pleased, ciously to the boy who looked so strong and

and that the pale little prince, who looked so healthy, yet who was so curiously grave. Oliver

fragile and delicate, should play happily under could not bow in a courtly way as Charles

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

[Nov.

did, but only went awkwardly forward, when his
grandfather, placing a hand upon his shoulder,
tried to make him bend his short, fat legs before
youthful royalty.

The King with one hand patted the closely

-.i3ra«,,.».'.«.X...i~.. ' Y.}

THE PET MONKEV AND THE BABV.

cropped head of the knight's grandson, while
the other rested on the golden curls of the baby
Charles, his heir, and with a cheery smile he
bade the boys go play together, and told them
to be friendly one with another.

Holding out his tiny hand to the silent, sturdy
Oliver, the litde prince clasped the other's strong,
brown fingers in childish confidence, and the
two passed out under the gray stone gateway
■with its carved figures of ancient Britons sup-
porting the arch. Out they went into the lovely
park beyond, where the sunshine danced merrily
in and out among the branches of the trees,

playing hide-and-seek with the quivering leaves,
and the grass was spread out like a soft green
carpet, upon which the children could play as
merrily as the birds above them sang.

The attendants talked among themselves, cast-
ing glances every now and then toward the
daintily clad little prince, whose curls were shin-
ing like gold in the sunshine, and whose pale
cheeks flushed with pleasure as the other boy
told of the rabbits which sometimes ran across
the park, and promised that, if the litde visitor
would keep very still, some of these rabbits would
surely come, and then they could jump at them,
frighten them, and chase them across the grass.

Young princes are not taught to be patient,
and Charles soon tired of waiting quietly for the
rabbits. He proposed that Oliver should be
harnessed with some fine silk reins and driven
with a silver-mounted whip which was among
the toys the prince's attendants had brought
from London.

But Oliver was unwilling to be harnessed and
flatly refused to be whipped. Unused to opposi-
tion, the prince grew petulant and, at last, in a
teasing way, half struck young Oliver across the
shoulders with the lash of the new whip.

Oliver's brown face grew crimson, and doub-
ling his fist in a threatening manner, he turned
upon the royal child saying angrily:

" You shall riarr drive me, nor whip me with
your stupid little whip ! I will not allow it ! "
And then, before the prince could answer, the
angry boy struck him full in the face with his
clenched fist. A moment later the attendants,
startled by loud cries, came running up, and were
horrified to see the blood streaming from the
prince's nose over his pretty lace collar and
velvet frock.

Oliver was sent home to Huntingdon in dis-
grace, and all the pleasant visions of good Sir
Henry faded away, for surely now his grandson
could never make a friend of Charles Stuart.

And yet, many great things had been pre-
dicted for the boy. When he was an infant
asleep in his cradle, one summer day at Hinch-
ingbrooke, a pet monkey had crept into the
room, and, carefully lifting up the baby from his
bed, had carried him to the roof of the house.
All the household were terrified, and quickly
brought beds and mattresses, that the child might

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

fall unharmed should the monkey drop him. The
sagacious animal, however, brought the little
fellow safe back again. But had he dropped the
baby over the stone battlements upon the rough
ground below, the fate of King Charles might
have been a very different one.

The wise men of the day professed to believe
that this extraordinary adventure \\'ith the monkey
was a sign that the child would do great things ;
and when, some years later, Oliver insisted
that in a dream he had seen a tall man who
came to his bedside, and, opening the curtains

of his bed, told him he should one day be the
greatest person in the kingdom, these wise men
were more than ever con\inced that a great
future was in store for the remarkable boy. His
father told him that it was wicked, as well as
foolish, to make such an assertion, for it was dis-
lo)'al to the King to even hint that a greater
than he could exist in the land ; but Oliver still
persisted in saying that the vision was true, add-
ing that the tall figure had not said that he
should be King, but only " the greatest person
in the kingdom." So vexed was his father with

OLIVER AND THE PRINCE QUARREL-

THE PRIN'CE AND THE BREWERS SON.

[Nov.

him about this silly tale, that he told Dr. Beard,
the Master of the free grammar-school which
Oliver attended in Huntingdon, to punish him
well, and see whether flogging would not drive
these foolish ideas out of his head. Even after
floggings, however, the boy continued at times
to repeat the story to his uncle Steward, although
his uncle also told him that it was little less
than traitorous to relate the prophecy.

While Oliver was at this grammar-school, ac-
cording to ancient custom a play was acted by
the pupils. The one chosen was an old comedy
called " Lingua," and no part in it would satisfy
Oliver Cromwell save that of "Tactus," who
had to enact a scene in which a crown and
other regalia are discovered. This scene seemed
peculiarly to fascinate him.

During this period, when Oliver's mind was
thus dwelling upon mimic crowns, the boy whom
he had once struck that hasty blow under the
shady trees at Hinchingbrooke, had become heir
to a real crown, by the death of his elder brother
Prince Henry.

Having now grown from a sickly child to be
a high-spirited, handsome youth, with his friend
the Duke of Buckingham he had traveled to
Spain in search of adventure, and also in order
to see the young Spanish princess whom the
King, his father, wished him to marry. On their
way the two j-oung men stopped in Paris. There,
at a masked ball, they saw the lovely Henrietta
Maria, sister of the French king ; and after this
there was no possibility that the Spanish Infanta
should become Queen of England, for Prince
Charles could not forget the fair face of the
French beauty ; and in course of time Henrietta
Maria became his wife.

All this time the boy Oliver, also grown to
man's estate, lived on in the quiet town of Hunt-
ingdon, near the beautiful jiark where he had
played with the baby prince, and where he had
refused so stoutly to be the child's horse, and to
be driven with the silken reins and the whip with
the silver bells.

The good old grandfather, the " Golden
Knight " Sir Henry Cromwell, was dead and
buried, long since, and could no more rebuke
his grandson for his hasty, unjdelding temper.
There had been another roj-al visit to Hinch-
ingbrooke, with great feastings and ceremonials ;

but it was Oliver Cromwell (not the boy Oliver,
but a son of the doughty knight. Sir Henry)
who now reigned over the lordly house and
lands, and this time the King had come without
the prince, and the two bo)-s who once fought
under the shade of the branching oaks were pur-
suing each his own life, little dreaming how those
lives should influence one another.

It was while the King was at Hinchingbrooke,
upon his second visit, that Oliver Cromwell's
father, the brewer Robert, lay grievously sick,
" somewhat indifterent to royal progresses," and
in 1 6 1 7 he died, leaving his son — then about
eighteen — as head of the little household at
Huntingdon. Not long after, Oliver also, as
well as Prince Charles, brought home a smiling
young wife, and as the years passed on baby
children played under the trees where he and
the little prince had played — but let us hope
there were neither doubled fists nor bleeding
noses.

While Charles's life was a gay and stirring one,
Oliver's was grave and quiet, and Oliver himself
grew more and more solemn and silent, and
finally he and other serious-thinking men decided
that the King was a tyrant ; the country, he
thought, would be better without him, and he
joined these other discontented ones who thought
the same, and who determined to make war
against Charles, and the too merry, careless life
which they thought he was leading.

Sometime before, while yet a boy, Oliver had
fallen into the river Ouse, which runs sleepily
by the old town of Huntingdon; and the curate
of a church near by, in the village of Conning-
ton, who was walking on the river-bank at the
time, pulled him out of the water, and saved
his life. Afterward, when Cromwell marched
through this town at the head of his troops,
going to fight Charles Stuart, he saw and rec-
ognized the curate who had been his rescuer,
and asked, smilingly:

" Do you not remember me ? "

" Yes," answered the loyal curate ; " but I
wish I had put you in the river rather than have
seen you in arms against the King 1 "

Cromwell thought it right to overturn the
throne, and he did so. Whether his acts were all
inspired by a desire to carry out the will of a
Supreme Being, as he asserted them to be, is to

1889.]

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

this day a disputed point of history and will dream, and the vision of the tall man beside his

probably remain so until the end of time. bed who promised that he should become the

In 1627, beautiful Hinchingbrooke passed out " greatest man in the kingdom " ; and ambition

of the hands of the Cromwells, and became the may have tempted him along the bold path he

home of the noble family of Montague ; and, had chosen. Perhaps he thought that he was

some four years later, Oliver Cromwell left really doing right in thus trying to make away

Huntingdon and went to live at St. Ives, where with the authority of the King — who can tell?

CROMWELL AND THE Ct'RATE.

can still be seen the bridge across the Ouse about
which was written the quaint old puzzle :

" As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives ;
Every wife had seven sacks;
Every sack had seven cats ;
Every cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives.
How many were there going to .St. Ives? "

During many weary years the struggle went
on between King Cliarles and his Parliament —
Oliver Cromwell joining with the latter, and be-
coming one of the principal opponents of his
sovereign. Perhaps he thought of his boyhood's

It is always difficult to understand men's motives.
Certain it is that the royal cause went from bad
to worse ; the army of Charles was defeated and
repulsed on every side, and the army of the
Parliament, to which Cromwell belonged, was
triumphant everywhere.

Poor King Charles! He was no longer gay
and happy, but sad and very miserable. His
Queen secretly left England, and in a foreign
country sold the beautiful crown-jewels which
had been worn at so many splendid fetes and
entertainments, in order to obtain money for her
husband's soldiers. But it was all of no use ; the
Parliament, with Oliver Cromwell at the head

THE PRINCE AND THE BREWERS SON.

of its armies, finally conquered, and at last the
King himself fell into the hands of his enemies
and was held a prisoner. And now Cromwell
determined that Charles Stuart, with whom he
had once played as a little boy, should die.

Before his death Charles was allowed to see
his children, — the two at least who were in
England at the time, — the Princess Elizabeth
and the little Duke of Gloucester. After sending
a message by his daughter to his wife, Henrietta
Maria, whom he could never see again, the King
took his little son upon his knee and said gravely
to him : " My dear heart, they will soon cut off
thy father's head. Mark it, my child, they will
cut off thy father's head, and perhaps make
thee a king. But, mark what I say, thou must
not be a king so long as thy brothers Charles
and James live ; therefore, I charge thee, do not
be made a king by them." The brave child
replied, " I will be torn in pieces first ) " Then
the unhappy father gave the two his blessing and
said good-bye. Even the stern soldier Oliver was
touched by the grief of the wretched King and
of the poor little prince and princess, who knew
that they should never again sit upon their father's
knee, or hear his voice, or see his face, .\fter this
came a dark and dreadful day when the King
was led out from the palace of Whitehall to die
upon a scaffold.

History has made the rest of the story familiar ;
and very likely many of you have read the war-
rant ordering the execution of the King, and have
seen among the first of the signatures to it, the
name of the King's former playmate, the son of
the brewer of Huntingdon.

As Oliver Cromwell signed his name in firm,
clear characters to that cruel document, did he
recall the sunshiny day at lovely Hinching-
brooke, and the pale little prince who had held
out his baby hand in such friendly fashion, and
laughed so gleefully when the sturdy, brown-
faced boy, with whom his father had bid him
" be friends," told of the rabbits that sometimes
scampered over the grass under the spreading
trees ? Or did he remember the angry words
he had spoken when the little child in turn had
told of his silken reins, and his whip with silver
bells ? And the blow he had dealt which made
the blood flow and drew forth a cry of pain ?
Then the cry had been soon hushed, but on that
gloomy January day, in 1648, the King's head
lay severed from his body, and Charles Stuart
was silent for ever.

The brewer's son continued his career until his
dream came true ; for the day came when he could
write his name as " Lord Protector of the Com-
monwealth of England, Scodand, and Ireland."

He was the " greatest person in the kingdom."

THE CRICKET.

By Helen Thaver Hutcheson.

Dainty Allis, here 's a cricket,
Trim and nimble, brave and bold.

Caught a-chirping in a thicket,
When the year was growing old.

He 's a patient little hummer.

Though he only knows one song ;

He 's been practicing all summer,
And he never sings it wrong.

He was piping under hedges
After all the birds had flown.

Trilling loud from stony ledges,
Making merry, all alone.

If the bearded grasses wavered
Underneath the lightest foot.

His sharp murmur sudden quavered
Into silence at the root.

Now the cricket comes to bring you
Cheery thoughts in time of frost;

And a summer song he '11 sing you
When the summer sunshine 's lost.

You '11 be listening till you 're guessing
Pleasant meanings in the sound.

May the cricket's good-night blessing
Bring the happy dreams around !

Many and many a year hereafter
You will hear the same blithe tune.

For though you should outlive laughter,
Crickets still wOl chirp in June.

If some future summer passes
Homesick, in a foreign land,

There '11 be speech among the grasses,
That your heart will understand.

As you listen in the wild-wood

To that merry monotone,
It will bring you back your childhood

When you are a woman grown.

Vol. XVII.— 8.

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

By Sophie Swett.

HILE the other
boys in Bloom-
boro' were saving
up their pennies to
buy whistles and
pop-guns and cara-
mels, or base-ball
bats and bicycles,
according to their
various ages and
tastes or to the seasons, Tom Pickemell was
always saving up to buy tools. Sometimes they
were of one kind, sometimes of another. He
had bought even farming tools, although he
had the lowest possible opinion of farming.
His grandfather seemed to think that farming
was the chief end of man; he was determined
that Tom should be a farmer whether he liked
or not ; but he believed in good old-fashioned
ways, and refused to buy any "new-fangled"
machinery. Tom argued and argued, but his
grandfather would not listen. He was scornful of
all Tom's great undertakings in the mechanical
line, and even Grandma, who usually had some
sympathy with a boy, laughed until she cried at
his idea of inventing a machine which should
"instantly separate milk into its component
parts." No tedious waiting for cream to rise,
no slow and back-aching churning process.
(Tom had reason to feel deeply on this point.)
Almost in the twinkling of an eye the milk, as
it came from the cow, was to be changed into
butter and buttermilk. Cynthy, the hired girl,
said it was "flyin' in the face of Proverdunce
to talk like that," and was sure that a boy who
did n't believe in churnin' would " surely turn
out an infiddle."

Tom knew that the great creameries had im-
proved upon the old-fashioned chums, but their
improvements were only child's play compared
to what he meant to do. He kept on thinking
over his plans, and experimenting as far as he

could, in spite of every one's jeers, although he
became so exasperated sometimes, when people
would ?i't understand him, that he would lie
down on his face in tlie pine grove, and dig his
fingers into the soil, and kick. But that was
when he was younger. He was fourteen now,
and had discovered that it was better to fight
manfully against obstacles than to kick the
empty air. He had also begun to learn that he
did n't know so much as he thought he did;
and this was a very hopeful sign for Tom, for it
is n't taught in the grammar-school books, and
seems to be a neglected branch even at the
universities.

He had begun to understand, also, why he
was " a trial," as Grandma and Cynthy said.
He could n't see but that a boy had a right to
take things to pieces, if he put them together
again ; but sometimes, quite unexpectedly, they
failed to go together as they were before. This
(as in the case of the alarm-clock, and Grandma's
long-cherished music-box) was annoying, Tom
candidly acknowledged. He felt so unhappy
about those failures, that he forbore to remmd
them, when they scolded him, that he had
made Grandma's worn-out egg-beater better
than when it was new, and repaired Cynthy's
long-broken accordion, so that now she could
enjoy herself, playing and singing "Hark, from
the Tombs," on rainy Sunday evenings.

It was a discouraging world, in Tom's opinion,
but he was, nevertheless, still determined to in-
vent, some day. The Instantaneous Butter-maker.
Many, many times, in imagination, he had gone
over all the details of a wonderful success with
that invention, even to Grandpa's noble and
candid confession (generally accompanied by
tears) that he had misunderstood and wronged
Tom ; but the details were becoming modified as
he grew older ; he had begun to strongly doubt
whether any such thing could ever be expected
of Grandpa. There had been a schoolmaster at

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

Bloomboro' for one winter, who held the con-
soUng beUef that a boy might not be akogether
a dunce although he was so " mixed up " in
geography as to declare that Constantinople
was the capital of Indiana, and was unable to
regard English grammar as anything but a hope-
less conundrum. Out of school he taught Tom
geometry, and was astonished at his quickness.
He even confided to Grandpa that he should
not be surprised if Tom turned out a genius.

But this had anything but the desired effect
upon Grandpa ; for to his mind a genius was an
out-at-elbows fellow who played on the fiddle,
and eventually came to the poor-house. Grand-
ma's idea was even worse : she said that if
Tom's father had lived he would know how to
bring Tom up so that he would n't turn out a
genius, but she was afraid they should n't ; —
she thought it all came of his mother being
a Brown.

But Grandma was too kind and sympathetic to
be hard upon a boy, as Grandpa was. She laughed
at him, and sometimes sighed dreadfully, — that
was almost the hardest thmg for Tom to bear, —
and occasionally confided privately to Grandpa
that she "was n't -going to believe but that
Tom would turn out as well as any boy, he was
so kind-hearted and affectionate; and as for
smartness, what other boy could make a fox-
trap out of his own head? " Sly Grandma knew
that Grandpa valued that fo.x-trap because it was
useful on the farm, and so she kept it in remem-
brance. Tom had no sjinpathizers among the
boys. He hked Jo \Mupple best of any, but
Jo was a famous scholar; he could recite whole
pages of histor)' without missing a word; in dates
you could seldom catch him tripping; he could
see sense in' grammar, and he was going to study
Greek with the minister. And Tom shrewdly
suspected that Jo secredy thought him a fool.
Jed Appleby was the only boy in Bloomboro'
who had any interest in Tom's favorite pursuits,
and Tom had painful doubts of his honesty and
thought Jed meant to steal his inventions. So it
happened that when Tom wished for that sym-
pathy which is a necessity to most of us he was
forced to seek it from Caddy Jane.

Caddy Jane w^as his cousin, and she was an
orphan, too, and was being brought up by
Grandpa and Grandma. It was Tom's opinion

that that process was less hard upon a girl
than upon a boy — and perhaps he was right;
nevertheless, Caddy Jane had her private
griefs. Grandma dressed her as little girls were
dressed when she was }'Oung, and the other girls
jeered at her pantalettes. Then, too, Grandma
did n't approve of banged hair; she said Na-
ture had given Caddy Jane " a beautiful high
forehead," and she was n't going to have it
spoiled; so she parted Caddy's hair in the middle
and strained it back as tightly as possible into
the tightest of little braids at the back. Tom
wondered, sometimes, with a sense of the hol-
lowness of Ufe, if it were not that straining back
of her hair which gave Caddy Jane's eyes the
round, wide-open look which he took for won-
der and admiration, when he showed her his
machinery or told her his plans. It was cer-
tainly quite doubtful whether Caddy Jane under-
stood, at all. Tom, in his heart, suspected her of
being a very stupid little thing, but she had this
agreeable way of looking with round-eyed, open-
mouthed wonder at one's productions, and
would listen silently and with apparent interest
to the longest outpouring of one's interests and
plans ; and if this is not sympathy it is certainly
not a bad substitute for it. And if Caddy Jane
was a little stupid, well, — it would be uncom-
fortable not to be able to feel superior to a girl,
Tom thought; and if she had been quick at her
lessons he knew he should not have hked her half
so much. Caddy Jane not only found geography
hard, but she was struggling with skepticisms as
well. She did not believe that the earth was
round, because, if it were, why did not the China-
men fall off? Once when Grandpa had taken
her with him to market, at Newtown, she had
slipped, all by herself, into a Chinaman's laun-
dry and asked him if he could walk head down-
ward, like a fly, and the Chinaman had positively
disclaimed any such abiUty. This (to Caddy
Jane's mind the only possible solution of the
m)-stery) ha^ing failed, she felt that there was
nothing for a rational mind to do but to resign
itself to a bold and dreadful doubt of the Geog-
raphy. This seemed so reckless, and her trouble
was so great, that she confided in Tom; although
she was, as her grandmother said, " a dreadful
close-mouthed little thing." The doubt grew
still more painful when she discovered, through

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

[Nov.

Tom's jests and evasions, that he knew no more
about it than she. He said he could n't stop to
explain it, and a girl need n't bother herself
about such things, but she might ask Jo Whip-
ple. To Whipple! — who made most unpleasant
faces at her through a hole in the fence, and
whooped dismally in the dusk while she ran
across the field to carry the Scammons' milk 1
Caddy Jane felt that it would be quite impossi-
ble to ask him, and, moreover, she did n't believe
that he knew any more than Tom, and said so,
which was very gratifying to Tom. When one
is conscious of being generally regarded as a
dunce, it is agreeable to have even a silly little
thing like Caddy Jane believe in one. So Caddy
Jane was a real consolation to Tom, and there
was no drawback to the pleasure of their meet-
ings, except the fact that Caddy Jane's boots
were almost always squeaky (Grandma believed
in good, stout, economical ones), and Tom's en-
terprises were so strongly disapproved of that
he was obliged to carry them on in the privac}-
of the old granary, which had been abandoned
to rats and mice and weather.

It made a great stir at the farm when, one day,
a letter came from Cousin David Creighton, ask-
ing if his wife and daughter might spend the sum-
mer there. He was going to Europe, and his
wife wanted to be where she could have perfect
rest from excitement and gayety, and he wanted
Dulcie (" that is the little girl, I suppose,"
Grandma said, adjusting her glasses for the
twentieth time in her excitement as she read the
letter, "though of all the names I ever heard
of — ! ") he wanted Dulcie to have cows' milk and
country fare generally, and to get acquainted
with Bloomboro', where he had been a boy.

Cousin David Creighton had been a very
poor bov in Bloomboro'. He had been father-
less and motherless and homeless, sheltered here
and there, where any one would have him, and
"bound out" to the miller; he had picked ber-
ries to pay for his \\'inter shoes, and known the
physical and mental trials of outgrown jackets
and trousers. And then, suddenly, he had taken
his fortunes into his own hands, and slipped away
from Bloomboro'; and scarcely any one cared to
inquire where he had gone, and for years no one
knew. The miller's wife had a theory that he
had died of overeating, for she never knew a

boy to have such an appetite. When his name
began to appear often in the New York papers
that found their way to Bloomboro', the old men
would look at one another and wonder if it
could be the one. The doubt was ended when
a commercial traveler, who knew all about David
Creighton, appeared at the Bloomboro' hotel.
It ivas their David, and, according to the com-
mercial traveler, he could buy a gold mine every
morning before breakfast, if he cared to, and
carried two or three of the great railroads in his
pocket. Grandpa said he 'most wished he had
given David a dollar «'hen he went away. He
had thought of it, when he saw him tjang up his
bundle, but he was only a kind of second cousin,
and he^ had been afraid, too, that he would n't
make a good use of it. And Grandma said
David's story was " like a made-up one in a pic-
ture-paper, and it seemed kind o' light-minded
to listen to it." But the Bloomboro' boys
listened, and the heart of many a one burned
within him.

David's wife was a fine city lady ; the com-
mercial traveler had heard wonderful reports of
her diamonds and her turnouts. Grandma was
afraid she would put on airs, and not be satisfied
\\-ith anything ; but Grandpa said he did n't " see
how they could refuse, bein' 't was relations " —
besides, crops had been poor for two years and
the bank-account was running low. Grandpa
thought much about that.

-So the letter was sent, saying that David's wife
and daughter might come ; and Caddy Jane
scarcely slept a wink three nights, for thinking
and wondering about Dulcie, who was just nine,
as she was ; but Tom did n't trouble himself
in the least about the expected guests, having
weightier matters on his mind.

He had been at work for months, in his spare
time, on a miniature threshing-machine of his
own invention. Grandpa was so discouragingly
old-fashioned as to believe in a boy and a flail
as a threshing-machine. In Tom's opinion the
horse-power threshing-machines, which some of
the Bloomboro' farmers boasted, were not much
better. His machiner}' was somewhat compli-
cated, and he had not yet quite decided whether
the motive power should be steam or electricity,
though he had leanings toward the latter. He
had kept many midnight vigils in the old gran-

9-1

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

ary, with no company except now and then a
bright-eyed, inquisitive mouse, and he thought
in about a week or two he should finish the
machine to his satisfaction. It was dishearten-
ing to find that Caddy Jane had transferred her
interest almost entirely to the expected guests.
And Jo Whipple was continually urging him to
go fishing. A boy who thought great thoughts
must think them alone, Tom reflected, bitterly.

Cousin David Creighton came to Bloomboro'
with his wife and daughter. They brought a
French maid, their pug-dog, and a great amount
of luggage ; but, nevertheless, Caddy Jane and
even Grandma herself were somewhat disap-
pointed at the appearance of the party, for they
did n't look in the least as if they came out of a
fairy-book, as Caddy Jane expected, or even a
picture-paper, they were so plainly dressed ; and
Grandma felt sure they had on their best clothes,
because no one in Bloomboro' would think of
wearing an}'thing else on a journey. And
Grandma thought Dulcie such a queer, " out-
landish-looking " little girl, with her hair down
to her eyes, and her dresses down to her shoes
and far too short-waisted. Grandma hoped she
could have the Bloom'ooro' dressmaker " fix her
up a little " before the minister's wife called.

Although they were both nine, Dulcie and
Caddy Jane looked askance at each otheh It
was onl)' when, the day after the arrival, Dulcie
needed sympathy in a great trouble that the ice
was broken between them, and they irmnediately
became great friends. Dulcie's dearest doll,
Jacquetta, had been carelessly packed, and a
heavy box pressing upon her had maimed and
disfigured her for life.

Caddy Jane went fl)ing through the wood-
shed that afternoon, with Jacquetta under her
arm, to meet Tom. " O Tom, you never saw
anything like her ! Such a beauty ! and she feels
orfley ! She cried and cried, and — you don't
think you could mend her, do you, Tom ? And
anyway I want you to hear her talk ; that was n't
broken, and it 's almost enough to frighten you,
and oh 1 Tom, what is the matter ? "

Caddy Jane's tone suddenly changed, for she
discovered, as Tom came nearer, that his face
was pale and his eyes so dark that they looked
unlike Tom's soft, blue ones, and his teeth were
set tightly together ; altogether he looked almost

as if he were not Tom at all, as Caddy Jane
said to herself. She had never seen him look so
but once before, and that was when Samp' Peters
set his fierce dog upon Tom's white kitten, and
the kitten's back was broken.

" Do tell me what it is, Tom ? " said Caddy
Jane.

Tom set his teeth more tightly together, and
then, suddenly, it came over him that it would
be a relief to tell Caddy Jane. It always was, —
perhaps because she was such a foolish little
thing ; she never gave any advice. Tom did n't
like ad\dce when he felt miserable.

" They were going over the farm. Grandpa
and Cousin David Creighton," began Tom, in a
strained, high-keyed voice, which he tried very
hard to keep calm and steady. " Cousin David
wanted to see the places that he remembered.
I did n't think they would go into the old gran-
ary, it 's such a tumble-down old place, but they
did, and Grandpa rummaged around. He saw
some of my tools — I '\e got careless since no-
body ever goes there — and that made him sus-
pect. I was away down on the edge of the
swamp when I saw them in there ; you 'd bet-
ter believe I ran ! When I got to the door
Grandpa had my model in his hand. I screamed
out. I don't know what I said, but I tried to
tell him what it was. I thought if I could make
him understand that it would do more in five
minutes than two men in a week! — but it was
of no use ; he had that smile on his face that
just maddens a fellow. He threw my model
down on the floor and set his foot on it."

" Oh, Tom ! " Caddy Jane stepped upon some
wood to make her taU enough, and put her arm
around Tom's neck. Tom shook her off, after a
moment; he thought the fellows would call him
" a softy " if they should see her. But Caddy
Jane knew that he was not displeased, for he
went on to say, not without a little choking in
his throat :

" And that is n't the worst, Caddy Jane."

"O Tom, what could \iQ worse?" cried Caddy
Jane.

'• That man — Cousin David Creighton —
acted as if he meant to be kind ; he picked up
the pieces and looked them over ; he stayed after
Grandpa had gone out; and he asked me about
the machine. And he said I had made a mis-

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

[Nov.

take. I did n't believe him at first, but he showed
it to me. Caddy, it would n't have gone, any-
way ! "

"But you could have made it right, Tom!
You can make it over and make it go ! " cried
Caddy Jane, with intense conviction.

" He said I did n't know enough : that I was
too ambitious; that I must learn things first.
And it 's true ! That 's the very worst of it ! I
don't believe I shall ever make anything that
will go. I may as well dig potatoes all my life,
as Grandpa wishes me to."

" Oh, Tom, you will make things that will go !
I know you will," cried Caddy Jane. "You
would n't think such wonderful things unless
you could do them. Things will go wrong just
at first. I thought I should never learn to heel
and toe off, and now you can't tell my stockings
from Grandma's. And you are so smart," she
added quickly, feeling it presumptuous to com-
pare herself, in any way, to Tom. "And oh,
Tom, there are so many troubles I Dulcie has
cried and cried. Just look here! Her beauti-
ful nose all flattened, her eye dropped out, her
cheek crushed in, and her dear arm broken off! "

Caddy Jane held up the melancholy wreck
of a golden-haired wa.\ doll.

" Pooh ! girls' rubbish," growled Tom, think-
ing that Caddy Jane was going to be much less
satisfactory, now that this new girl had come.

" But listen, Tom ! "

" Pa-pa ! " " Mam-ma ! " said the golden-haired
doll, not in a faint voice, as one might e.\pect
from her condition, but quite distincdy.

Tom fairly jumped; talking dolls were quite
unknown to Bloomboro'. Then he seized the
doll eagerly from Caddy Jane's hands, and
squeezed it again and again.

" I wonder how they do it I I wonder what
the machinery is like ! " he exclaimed. " She 's
all smashed up, anyway. That girl would n't
mind if I should take her to pieces, would
she?"

Tom had quite forgotten his troubles for the
moment ; his face was all aglow.

'■'■Oh, Tom!" Caddy Jane's accent was full of
horror. " I don't know what she would say. She
says she thinks just as much as ever of her.
And she feels orfley because, she says, she has
neglected her lately for a colored doll that was

given her in Boston. She 's only made of kid,
and she 's got raveled yarn for wool, and bead
eyes, and she 's not so very much better-looking
than my old Dinah ; but she never saw a col-
ored doll before, and she thinks she is perfecdy
fascinating ; that 's what she says, ' perfectly fas-
cinating ' ; and her name is Nancy Ray, and
she says if she could only talk, like Jacquetta — "

Tom was gazing at Jacquetta with speculative
and longing eyes.

" You might leave her here. I will mend her
arm some time," he said, with an assumption of
inditference.

" Oh, I could n't do that. You might take her
to pieces — of course you would n't mean to,
but you might without thinking — and perhaps
she would n't go together again ! " said Caddy
Jane, with a vivid recollection of some of Tom's
enterprises.

" You 'd better take her away just as quick
as you can. She might get a scratch — such a
handsome new doll ! " sneered Tom.

Caddy hesitated. She could never bear to
have Tom cross, and he was looking dejected
again.

" I might ask Dulcie if she would like to have
you mend her arm," she said.

" Well, go along, and don't keep talking about
it. It is n't worth while," said Tom, crossly.

Caddy Jane was back in a minute.

" She says she does n't care. They 're mak-
ing a new red dress for Nancy Ray, Dulcie
and the French woman are, and I think Dulcie
is almost forgetting about Jacquetta."

" Leave old Jacket here, then," said Tom,
quite restored to good-nature. " And, I say,
Caddy Jane, you might get up a httle picnic for
that girl. It would be nice to go down to
Plunkett's pond and stay all day."

Caddy Jane caught readily at the idea. She
said she would go, this very minute, and see
what Grandma thought about it. She looked
back wistfully at Jacquetta. Although she was
nine, Caddy Jane still had the feelings of a
mother toward dolls, and she strongly suspected
that Jacquetta was about to be sacrificed to
Tom's spirit of investigation. And there was
the dreadful doubt whether she would go to-
gether again! But Caddy Jane struggled against
her feelings, for Tom's sake — poor Tom, whose

1889.]

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

precious model had been crushed under Grand-
pa's heel !

Tom, the moment he was alone, thrust Jac-
quetta under his jacket, as far as she would go,
and set out for the old granary. A half-hour
before, he had said to himself that he could never
bear to enter that place again; but now he pushed
aside the ruins of his model with only a dull
pang of remembrance, so absorbing was his
curiosity about this wonderful new machinery.

He mended the arm first. It seemed a great
waste of time ; but that girl might take it into her
head to want the doll suddenly, and she might
make a fuss and cry. She was evidently not a girl
like Caddy Jane, whom a fellow could put in her
proper place. It is to be feared that the mend-
ing of that arm did small credit to Tom's me-
chanical skill; it certainly was a very hurried
performance. And when it was done he care-
fully locked the granary door, and proceeded to
discover what made Jacquetta say "Papa" and
" Mamma."

He worked for a long time, and sometimes his
forehead was puckered up into a very hard frown,
and several times he uttered a little exclamation
of satisfaction. Once he longed so much for
Caddy Jane that he was tempted to go in search
of her. He had made a discovery which he
wished so much to tell to some one.

He had taken the machinery all apart, and he
could put it together again; he would have
liked to have Grandma and every one know
that ; but it did seem a great pity to fasten it up
again in that old ruin of a doll.

Suddenly so bright an idea struck Tom that
he threw his cap up among the cobwebby beams
of the granary. " I '11 go and stir Caddy Jane
up about that picnic. I '11 make her have it
to-morrow. I can't wait," he said to himself
" Nobody could blame a fellow for trying such
a scientific experiment as that." He quite sur-
prised Grandma by his zeal in making prepara-
tions for the picnic, as he was not at all in the
habit of being attentive to guests, and had shown
a strong inclination to run away from " that
girl." When the morning of the picnic came,
Grandma thought he seemed more like himself,
for he steadfastly refused to go.

" That boy is up to something ; 't is n't any
use to tell me ! " Cynthy sagely remarked, as

Tom prowled restlessly about the house, evi-
dently in search of something.

At length, in a secluded comer of the piazza,
he seemed to find what he sought and ran off
with it to the old granary ; and nothing more
was seen of him for that day.

The picnic party returned late, and although
it was plain to Caddy Jane's e.xperienced eye
that Tom had something on his mind, he did not
confide in her. She observed that he continu-
ally cast an.xious glances at a certain corner of
the piazza ; and when Grandma had sent him
out to find a stray chicken which was peeping
disconsolately in the tall grass, she went to see
what there could be in that comer. But she
found nothing except Nancy Ray, sitting in the
carriage which had been poor Jacquetta's, just
as her mistress had left her. She did not think
it possible that Tom could have any interest in
Nancy Ray ; it was not long ago that he had
terribly wounded her feelings by letting all the
sawdust run out of her first doll, in an investi-
gating spirit, and since then he had shown only
scorn of dolls. She would have liked to ask him
about Jacquetta, but he gave her no opportunity.

Early the next morning Dulcie went across
the field with Caddy Jane, on an errand to Mrs.
Scammon. As they passed the old granary,
Dulcie caught sight of a bit of striped ribbon
fluttering from the top of a tall thistle near the
door. " It is Jacquetta's belt ! " she exclaimed.
" I should know it anywhere. Oh, my poor,
dear Jacquetta! I wonder if he has mended
her arm. This is the little house where you
said he works, is n't it ? Let us go in and see
if we can find her."

Caddy Jane objected, but Dulcie had already
pushed open the door. And it was quite use-
less, as Caddy Jane had found already, to object
to anything that Dulcie wished to do. She
opened drawers and peered into boxes and
barrels, while Caddy Jane, filled with an.xious
forebodings, begged her to come away; and
at last, at the same time, they both caught sight
of some golden locks, a waxen cheek, a col-
lapsed, dismembered body ! These fragments
lay on a table, in a heap of rubbish partially
covered with shavings.

" Oh, oh, that cruel, wicked boy ! he has broken
her all to pieces ! And she was the very dearest

A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT.

doll I ever had ! And you said he would mend
her ! Oh, how could I trust you ! Oh, my poor,
dear Jacquetta ! "

Dulcie's grief waxed louder upon reflection.
She heaped reproaches upon Caddy Jane. She
ran toward the house, in spite of all Caddy's
entreaties, crying with grief and rage. Caddy
saw, with a sinking heart, that Grandpa and
Dulcie's father were standing together upon the
piazza. Grandpa would be very angrj'. Tom's
passion for taking things to pieces was the one
thing with which he had no patience. And he
had especially enjoined upon both Tom and
Caddy to be very polite and attentive to the
guests. Oh, what would happen to Tom ?

There he was now, coming around the cor-
ner of the house, just in time to see the doll's
mangled remains in Dulcie's hands, and to hear
her woful complaint, poured out with tears and
sobs. Grandpa's face was like a thunder-cloud,
and when he asked Tom, in a dreadful voice,
what he had to say for himself, Tom would not
answer a word. He was in one of his sullen
moods, and, indeed, it «as not of much use to
try to answer Grandpa when he was in that
state of mind. And Dulcie's father looked as if
he were very sorry — for his little girl, of course,
Caddy Jane thought.

" And I never knew a doll that could talk
before, and he 's broken it right out of her 1 "
sobbed Dulcie.

And then a sudden inspiration seized Caddy
Jane ; she had them sometimes, though she was
such a foolish little thing.

She flew along the piazza and seized Nancy
Ray out of the carriage, pressed her to her
bosom, and uttered a cry of joy. She thrust
her into Dulcie's arms, while Dulcie ceased her
sobs in astonishment.

" Papa ! " '• Mamma ! " said Nancy Ray.

" Oh, oh, she can talk ! " cried Dulcie, becom-
ing a rainbow. " What does it mean ? She was

the nicest doll I ever had, before," — (Oh, false
and fickle Dulcie !) " and now she 's perfect ! Oh,
did you do it ? " (to Tom, who tried to look in-
different.) " It 's too bad that I called you an
orfle boy when you are such a nice one, and
can do such wondt-rful things. And Jacquetta
was only a broken old thing."

Tom was beginning to talk to Dulcie's father;
Grandpa had walked away, with something like
an amused look upon his face. Tom was ex-
cited and talked eagerly. It was a comfort to
explain that machinery to some one who seemed
to understand and be interested. And there
was one httle point where he thought an im-
provement might be made — it might be less
compUcated. He hesitated before saying this,
because he thought Cousin David might find
some mistake again, or perhaps laugh at him.
But he did n't ; he seemed to consider the
matter seriously, and asked a great many ques-
tions, and at last said that he should n't wonder
if Tom were right, and if Tom would work ujj
his idea so that it could be seen he might pos-
sibly secure a patent for it ! He thought those
talking dolls were not made in this country, but
he would see what could be done with it abroad ;
sometimes a little thing like that amounted to a
great deal. And, anyway, he had become so
convinced of Tom's mechanical ability, that he
was going to ask Grandpa's consent to Tom's
going to New York in the fall, where he would
give the boy a technical education.

Tom was so overcome that he only colored,
and gasped, and looked at Caddy Jane. And
Caddy Jane, being only a foolish little girl,
cried. But I think Cousin Da\'id felt that he
was receiving gratitude enough.

" I never expected anybody would believe
in me till I 'd made an Instantaneous Butter-
maker or an improved phonograph, or some-
thing great," said Tom ; " and to think it 's
come about through a silly old doll ! "

*ir-

Bv Oliver Herford.

Persons of the Drama.

Mr. Thomas Cat. Master Tommy Cat.

Mrs. Thomas Cat. Miss Fluffy Cat.

Sir Rat.

Scene : The barn. A haskef in one corner.

Master Tommy ( looking out of the basket).
How very big the world is, after all !
Compared to it our basket seems quite small.
We never dreamed, dear Fluffj-, till our eyes
Were opened, that the world was such a size.
I 'd like at once to see it all. Let 's go
And take a stroll around it.

Fluffy. No! No! No!

Mamma expressly told us not to stray
Outside the basket while she was away.
Something might hapj)en if we disobeyed.

Tommy.

Oh, you don't dare, of course, — you are afraid !

Fluffy.

Suppose — oh, dear ! — suppose we meet a
Rat!
Vol. XVII.— 9.

Tommy.

Suppose we do, dear Fluffy, what of that ?
/ will protect you with my strong right paw.
The sight of me would fill a Rat with awe.

Fluffy. Would it ?

Tommy. Of course it would. I 'd rather
like to see
The Rat who 'd dare to trifle once with me.
I do not think he 'd live to trv it twice 1

Fluffy.

You are so brave I
To see the world -

It reallv would be nice

Tommy. It will be grand. Here goes !
There, take my paw, and jump. So, mind
your toes !

(Fluffy fumps.)
Xow we are off. Tread softly, Sister dear.
If we 're not careful all the world may hear.

Fluffy (starting).

Oh, dear, what was
that noise ? I wish we
'd stayed —

Tommy (trembling).

Be brave, dear Sister. — see. / '/« n'-n'-not

a'-afraid.
Whatever happens, do not make a row !
6s

SIR RAT — A COMEDY.

[Nov.

Sir Rat.

Tommy.

Fluffy.

(Enter Sir Rat.)
Aha ! what 's this ?
Help! Murder 1 Mi-o\v-^7<:'!

Tommy, be calm ! Uear Mr. Rat, good-day. g,^ -^^^ gg jone with follv, Kitten ! Now at last

Sir Rat (jumping up and do7vn).

Enough! enough! I ihd not come to i>lay !

Fluffy.

Dear Mr. Rat, liow beautifully you dance.

Sir Rat. You flatter me.

Fluffy (aside). It is my only chance.

,^7J7 Tommy.)
Run, Tommy! run! and bring dear Father-cat,
While I remain and flatter Mr. Rat.

(Exit Tommy /// haste.)
(To^xv. R/\T.)
It 's very plain you learned that stc]) in France.
I wish, dear Rat, you 'd teach me how to dance.
Sir Rat.

I do not often dancing lessons give ;
But since you have n't very long to live.
And you are so polite, this once I '11 try.
Fluffy.

Your time has come. Reflect upon your past!

Fluffy.

It won't take long my past life to unfold!
In sooth. Sir Rat, I 'm only nine days old.

^ €.

'^,'^:^.---...

Sir Rat. Peace, Kitten! Hold thy peace! —
thy time is past. (Springs upon her.)

Thanks! thanks, dear Rat,— one Fluffy. Miow ! Miow !

dance before I die.

(Polka Music.
Sir Rat dances
and Eluffy ap-
plauds.)

Fluffy. Bravo !
Sir Rat, I
ne\'er saw
before
Such perfect
dancing!
W'on't )ou
dance once
more ?

(Enter Mr. and Mrs. Cat and Tommy.)

SIR RAT A COMEDY.

(■■^ \M

^Xil

-c^jr-

Mr. Cat. Aha! Sir Rat, at last

I have thee; and this barn will soon, I trow.
Be rid of such a Ruffian Rat as thou !

( They fght. Sir Rat falls.)

Mr. Cat (s/icathing his claws).

'T is well I hastened ; had I not, I fear
\Ve soon had seen the last of Fluffy dear !

Tommy.

Oh, dear, to think what might have been her
fate!

Fluffv (aside).

I learned that polka step, at any rate.

Mrs. Cat.

But luncheon 's waiting. Come into the house.

Your father
caught to-
day a line
spring mouse.

And, cliildren,
when I tell
you nut to stray

From home, in future do not disobey !

Curtain.

A RACE FOR LIFE.

By Emma W. De.meritt.

iOMETHING must have
happened. Father ought
to have reached home two
hours ago."

Tom Ely's face wore a
troubled look as he glanced
uneasily toward the door.
He was sitting by a blazing fire in the rough room
of a lumberman's log shanty upon the shore of
one of the large Adirondack lakes. Beside the
rough fireplace, at the head of a pile of skins
and coarse, woolen blankets, stood Tom's gun,
his Christmas present from his father. On the
other side, with the polished steels glistening
in the firelight, hung his skates, for this active
lad of fifteen was the champion skater of the
Saranac region. There was hardl)' anything
which Tom could not do on ice. He could go
forward or backward, wheeling and circling
witli all the ease of a swallow in mid-air. So
swiftly could he skim along the ice that his
father used laughingly to boast that — "while
any other skater was going one rod, Tom could
easil)' skate around him twice."

The lumbering-camp had broken up that very
day. After weeks of hard work, the great trees
had been cut down and the logs dragged to the
water's edge, waiting for the yearh' spring rise
in the rivers to float them to the mills. There
Avas nothing more to be done until the breaking
up of the ice. Most of the men had gone di-
rectly to their homes in the settlements. Ten or
twelve of them, however, had spoken of stay-
ing for a day or hvo at a shanty on the second
lake below-, with the hope of securing some
deer, and Tom's father concluded to stay be-
hind at the main camp for a few days, thinking
that if he should set his traps he might succeed
in getting a few skins to make warm tippets and
muffs for Tom's mother and litde sister.

Soon after dinner, leaving Tom to cook the
supper and gather some firewood, the father

shouldered his rifle and started out for a tramp.
By sunset, Tom had piled up the wood in one
corner of the cabin, and then he set to work to
prepare supper. He placed the big tin plates
and cups on the rough, pine table, and, taking
down a ham which was hanging from the ceiling,
cut oft" a few sHces and put them in the frying-
pan, and very soon an appetizing hot meal was
smoking on the hearth ; but still his father did
not come.

Tom was a Httle homesick, sitting there all
alone. He thought of his snug home in the set-
tlement, and fancied just how his mother and
little sister looked as they stood in the door-
way watching him and his father setting out for
the lumbering-camp. Even now, his mother's
parting words rang in his ears — "Tom, my boy,
take good care of your Father." \Miat if any-
thing had happened to his father !

Tom started to his feet and, running to the
door, opened it and stepped out in the bright
moonlight. It was a clear, cold night, and the full
moon was just rising above the dark line of forest.
He stood listening for a moment, and was turn-
ing to enter the cabin, when he heard a footstep.
He raised a whistle to his lips and sounded a
shrill, piercing note. It was the camp signal,
and after a brief pause came the answering
whistle. But it sounded strangely faint and
quavering. Tom wondered at this, and won-
dered still more as he heard a halting, uncer-
tain step on the frozen ground — a step utterly
unlike his father's long, steady stride.

The next moment a tall figure tottered down
the bank behind the shanty, and, by the light of
the moon, Tom saw his father's pale, hag_gard
face. " Don't be frightened," said the wounded
man in a hoarse whisper as the boy darted up
the bank and saw the scorched and blood-stained
jacket-sleeve and the strong arm hanging limp
and helpless. " My foot slipped — the rifle was
loaded — and went off — the ball shattered my

A RACE FOR LIFE.

arm and lodged in my side — I thought 1 never
should get home."

Tom managed to lead his father into the
cabin, where he sank down on the pile of skins
in a sort of stupor. After rubbing the cold hand,
and forcing a few spoonfuls of hot coffee be-
tween the white lips, Tom had the satisfaction
of seeing the sufferer open his eyes and look up
with an attempt at a smile.

" It 's pretty hard for you, Tom," he groaned.
" I feel better now. The loss of blood made me
•dizzy. What are you going to do ? "

" But if the men should n't be there ? "
" Then I '11 keep on to the settlement."
" No — no — no!" came in quick, short gasps;
"there 's another danger — wo/ves."

Tom looked up with a sudden thrill of fear.
" Have you seen them, Father ? "

" Yes, Tom, — only a little way from here, — in
some snow in a hollow there were tracks. Being
an old guide I could n't mistake 'em. The
winter has been long and sharp, and hunger has
made them bold. It is many years since they
have been seen around here."

ALR D THE LEAN SH

TH N A FE \ YARDS

" Going for help," replied Tom promptly. He
Tose, put on a thick, woolen jacket and took up
his fur cap.

The father shook his head. "No, no; — it
won't do, my son."

" But I inusf. Father ! Don't look so worried.
It 's only a step to the river ; then down the
stream, over the pond, and along the river again
— then whiz! across the big lake to the shanty
where the men are ! That 's all."

Tom's cheeks blanched. He knew well that
it was no play to face a hungry wolf, or per-
haps a pack of them, in that grim, lonely
wilderness. He hesitated, and then came the
remembrance of his mother's charge, "Tom.
take good care of your Father." His mind
was made up.

"I can't take my gun," he said aloud, "for it
would only be in the way, but the knife will
be just the thing." He twisted a thick scarf

A RACE FOR LIFE.

(Nov.

around hi.s waist, and fastened the long-bladed
iiunting-knife securely in his belt.

'• Tom, you niu.st not go,'' moaned his father.
" I can't let you risk your life to save mine ! "

" I must go. Father, if there were forty wolves
in my way." The boy knelt down by his father's
side and stroked the cold hand. " It 's dreadful
to leave you," — here he nearly broke down, but
managed to choke back the rising sobs, — "still,
it 's the only way. You might die without hel|i,
and what could 1 sa)' to Mother ! Keep up
your courage, Father. I 've fixed the fire so that
it will last, and here 's the cotilec right by your
elbow. I '11 be back soon." Here the boy
breathed the prayer, " God help me ! "

In a moment more, Tom had fastened the door
with a stout staple and was kneeling by the lake,
buckling on his skates. As he glided from the
shores he cast a hurried glance around. Both
his eyes and ears were strained to the utmost.
How black the shadows were along the shores '.
How sharp was the " click, click," of the skates,
as they carried him on w ith the steady motion
of a machine! The river was soon reached,
and the half-mile over its frozen surface was
easily made, as were the two miles across the
little pond. \\'hen he followed again the frozen
course of the river he skated backward, as his
fa(x' was benumbed from going against the wind.
He stopped several times for breathing-spells, so
that he felt quite rested as he swept out of the
river to the smooth, level floor of the great lake,
at the lower end of which was the hunters' cabin.
For two miles down the lake, Tom skated quite
slowly, as he was keejjing his strength for the
final dash. With body erect, head thrown back,
and arras crossed on his chest, he glided in
long, easy curves now to the right, now to the
left. As he reached the shelter of a little island
he paused for a short rest. Then he buckled on
his skates more firmly, but just as he was taking
a long breath in order to start again, a prolonged
mournful howl broke the stillness of the night
air. It was the sound which he had been
dreading and expecting ! His first impulse was
to save himself by climbing one of the large trees
near by. Then he thought of his mother's part-
ing charge. ''That would be looking out for
myself, and she told me to take care of Father,"
he murmured. He hastily pulled off his jacket,

felt for his knife, and tightened the scarf around
his waist. " You '11 have exercise enough to
keep you warm, Tom Ely," he muttered between
his set teeth ; and then he shot forward like an
arrow from the bow. How tlie ice rang under
the cjuick, fierce strokes of the skates ! How
swiftly the shores ghded by !

The boy paused a moment to look over his
shoulder. On the ice near the shore was a small,
black speck, growing rapidl\- larger. The wind
had swept the last light fall of snow from the
center of the lake into windrows on both
sides, and there it had frozen, making a rough
surface on which the wolf found a sure footing.
Tom increa.sed his speed, but that long, tireless
gallop, never for an instant faltering nor loitering,
was gaining rapidly on him. Already the lean,
shaggy brute was within a few yards, and the
bo)- heard an angry snarl as the creature made
a fierce spring at him. Quick as thought, Tom
wheeled suddenly to the right, and the wolf
rolled over and over on the ice, while the skater
sjied on, gaining several rods by this trick.

In a moment, however, the furious beast was
uj) again, and a second desperate race began,
and a second time Tom escaped the sharp, white
teeth. By this time the boy's heart was beating
like a tri])-hammer. His breath came in quick,
short gasps, and he was conscious of a (]ueer
feeling of weakness about the knees. His heart
sank within him as he looked back and saw his
enemy again on his track. " I can't keep it up
much longer," he thought. "A little twig or
roughness on the ice — and it is all over with me."
He raised his white, despairing face toward the
heavens with a swift, short prayer. Just then he
caught a glimpse of a low point of land at the
left. Tom's blood tingled at the sight ! Below
were the hunters' cabin and the stout lumber-
men ! " What if the men had gone on to the
settlement ! " — and the boyish voice broke into
a sob.

.'\ few strokes of the skates brought him to the
point, with the wolf close at his heels. Tom
raised his whistle to his lips and blew a piercing
blast. In another moment he had dodged the
wolf again, and as he swept round the point
he saw the open door of the cabin and the
blazing fire within. He heard a dozen answer-
ing whistles, the hoarse baying of dogs, the sharp

A RACE FOR LIFE.

crack of a rifle. He mustered strength to tell
his story, and then a faintness came over him and
he tottered into the arms of a strong lumberman.

The ne.xt that he knew, he was lying on a
pile of skins by a bright fire, with several strong
men bending over him. One of the hunters
was saying, " I 'd give a good deal to own a boy
hke that. Talk of heroes — why that fifteen-
year-old chap is the biggest hero of 'em all."

Tom looked up ; he said only, " Father ? "

" P'our of the men have gone to the settlement
for a doctor, half a dozen more, with old Hodge
amongst 'em (and he 's as good as a doctor any
time), are on the way to your father, and as soon
as you are able, we '11 take you up with us."

" And the wolf? " Tom .sank back shuddering.

" His hide is over yonder in the comer ; one
of the men says that he is going to dress the
skin for you. It will be the jjroudest trophy
of your life, I reckon."

JOKERS OF THE MENAGERIE.

By John Russell Coryell.

In one of the cages of the zoological gardens
at Central Park, there is a miscellaneous and
rather incongruous collection of birds, made up,
as it would seem, of the odds and ends of the
feathered portion of the menagerie; for it in-
cludes such dissimilar birds as the wood-duck,
the egret, the sickle-bill, a chicken with no bill
at all, a crow without any tail, a dilapidated ad-
jutant-bird, a roseate spoonbill (which spends
the greater part of its time in standing on one
of its spindling legs), a curassow, and several
other equally ill-assorted fellows.

Except a sulky heron, which seemingly passes
its gloomy life in nourishing a passionate hatred
for the tailless crow, these chance companions
associate very amicably together, bearing each
other's whims and fancies with philosophy and
good temper. And it must need a large supply
of both those virtues to get along in so mixed
a company ; for each bird follows the bent of
his natural habits without regard to any other
consideration.

Some of the results of this condition of affairs
are more amusing to the spectator than to the
actors ; as, when the sickle-bill becomes ])os-
sessed by the idea that something of great value
to him is hidden under the hen without a bill.

and that he must relieve his curiosity by remov-
ing the hen. Accordingly he thrusts his long
bill under that patient bird and lifts her uncere-
moniously out of the comfortable dust-hole she
has made for herself.

Many of the pranks played in that cage are,
however, so imbued with an air of conscious
humor and enjoyment that it is hard to believe
that they are not meditated jokes. The crow,
for example, is always a funny bird ; but this
particular crow has the manner of a bird that
knows itself to be funny and even seems to con-
sider the loss of its tail a very laughable thing.
Not that it has any appearance of laughing.
Far from it. Like a professional joker of the
first order, it is solemnity itself. So, too, is the
adjutant-bird, which combines with the crow to
make fun for the cage. And when this incon-
gruous pair are in a mischievous mood there is
certain to be fun.

One day, when the crow was hopping about
the cage in its misguided way, — misguided for
lack of a tail, — it noticed the pair of pretty little
wood-ducks contentedly eating some scraps of
meat. The adjutant-bird stood in seeming slum-
ber, a picture of solemn ugliness. The crow
skipped by the adjutant once or twice, with a

JOKERS OF THE MENAGERIE.

[Nov.

knowing cock of the head, as if inviting that
solemn bird to some fun; but the adjutant only
opened one of its eyes in a way inexpressibly
sly and then shut the eye again and took no
further notice of its fellow mischief-maker. For
a moment the crow looked doubtfully at its big
friend, well knowing the adjutant's wily ways,
and then with a series of sidling hops made up
to the wood-ducks, cocked its head leeringly at
them, snatched a piece of meat and scurried

laughter. The hilarity they caused seemed to
spur on both birds, as applause inspires actors,
and the feathered comedians continued their
drollery for round after round.

Of course there is always fun in the monkey
cage, but probably the sense of humor is not
more developed in the monkey than in many
other animals. The elephant, for example, can
enjoy a joke as much as an)' animal. Mr. Mer-
edith Nugent, the artist, tells of one of these

'the ELKrHA.Nr Wi.U LD CATCH UNK UK iHb tAKS OK IHE li 1 1 P' -FU I AM L b AND G1\E IT A MISCHIEVOLS TWEAK

off. The crow buried that piece and came back
for more and yet more, until there was no more
to be had. Then the crow- returned to his
buried treasures and unearthed and re-buried
them very gleefull\-. But now it was the turn
of the adjutant. It slowly stretched itself and
then stalked to where tlie crow was making his
rounds of inspection. .\s the crow would bury
a piece of meat, the adjutant would dig it up
and leave it exposed; thus undoing the work of
the crow as often as the latter would perform it.
And so they continued around and around the
cage, the one burying and the other unearthing,
and all with such droll solemnity that the spec-
tators about the cage were kept in roars of

giant jokers noticed by him in the zoological
gardens in Paris, while he was sketching there.
This elephant had made friends wth the hippo-
potamus and was permitted to visit the latter,
and it was in the inclosure for the hippopota-
mus that he developed a fondness for practical
joking, which seemed to give him peculiar
pleasure.

He would reach over the big tank when the
hippopotamus was lolling in the water, sud-
denly catch one of the little ears of the latter
with the finger of his trunk and give it so mis-
chievous a tweak that the huge river-horse would
roar out and angrily open his huge mouth. Then
the hippopotamus would be upon his guard and

iSSg.;

JOKERS OF THE MENAGERIE.

sink out of sight, to come up again further away.
But, for all his seeming anno)'ance, he apparently
liked the fun himself; for, when he had come up
to the surface quite too far away for the elephant
to reach him, he would sink and try again to re-
appear just out of reach of the waving trunk.
The elephant evinced his enjoyment of the sport
by swaying to and fro in the manner of his kind,
and occasionally, too, he would open his mouth
in a comical resemblance to a laugh, — though
it must be said that the resemblance is purely
accidental, for though the elephant may laugh
he does not do it in that way.

Another joke enjoyed by this elephant was to
stand over some particularly choice morsel meant
for the hippopotamus, and thus prevent him from
eating it — to tease him, in fact. So great was
the elephant's enjoyment of this feat that he
would not only sway to express his pleasure, but
would make a rumbling sound which, with the
elephant, is more than anything else indicative
of delight. And the vexation of the hippopot-
amus was as evident as the enjo\-ment of the
elephant. The hippopotamus knew he was power-
less to coerce his friend, and so he would go away
and sulk until it was the pleasure of the elephant
to move from the coveted food. Occasionally,
however, the elephant would pretend to leave
it, and then return just in time to cheat the
hippopotamus.

It was an Indian elephant that betrayed a
taste for fun in this instance; but in the same
menagerie there is another case known, in which
an African elephant showed a similar disposition.
Only, in this instance, the elephant caught a
tartar and was temporarily cured of his jocular
attentions. The African elephant had formed a
friendship for a zebra; and, though the zebra
was shy for some time, it yielded at last to the
advances of its gigantic friend and permitted his
caresses wthout giving way to paroxysms of
fear. By and by the elephant became embold-
ened and grew a little rough, pulling the sensi-

tive zebra's legs and tail and ears. One day the
zebra wearied of its ponderous friend's teasing
and incontinently caught one of the elephant's
great, flapping ears between its teeth and bit so
hard and pulled so sturdily, that the elephant
was fain to sue for mercy in a series of shrill
trumpetings. Thereafter the big elephant was
respectful as well as affectionate to the zebra.

It ought to be said in the elephant's behalf,
that he is not always so fond of joking at the
expense of his friends. It is a singular fact that
a friend or pet seems to be a necessity to a cap-
tive elephant. In most cases that friend is selected
from among the smaller of the animals about it.
Frequently the friend is a dog belonging to the
keeper, and in many well-known instances a
helpless, little human baby has been selected as
the object of the elephant's affection. When
the elephant's chosen friend is clearly help-
less, the great beast has never been known to
tease or injure it, even in fun. Its tenderness
with a baby is one of the most pleasing sights
imaginable.

Mr. Nugent tells also of a practical joke which
he saw perpetrated by a tiger in the London
Zoo, although it was really unintentional on the
part of the tiger and rather grim in its results.
In the cage next the tiger's, and hidden from his
view by a board partition, was a tamandua, or
ant-bear, a singular-looking creature that lives
in its native country upon ants, capturing
myriads of these little insects by means of an
abnormally long tongue, coated with a sticky
substance to which the ants adhere. This tongue
the captive ant-bear often thrust out and moved
about in an inquisitive way. In an evil hour it
discovered a hole in the partition separating it
from the tiger. The tiger was lazil}' stretched
at length, one day, when this long tongue came
into his cage. His first manifestation of dis-
pleasure was an ugly snarl, his next a quick
blow with its claw-armed paw. The ant-bear
never repeated its experiment.

Vol. XVII.— 10.

When the trees
are bare and Nature
has drawn her fleecy snow-curtain over tlie spec-
tacle of green field and flower-sprinkled hillside,
we may naturally give a thought to the slumber-
ing vitality under that soft white draper)-. The
tenderest hearts will feel almost pity for the
thousands of seeds and roots doomed to an icy
bed during a long winter ; yet those same hearts
will thrill with unalloyed delight at the snap-
ping, crackling, frantic mass of popping com, —
a live seed, every one, — although at each pop
a grain is forced into grotesque and unnatural
blossoming. The ear of corn has perhaps suf-
fered a harder fate by being garnered and housed
only to be roasted alive. But, notwithstanding
there is life in each seed, just as certainly as
there is in a hen's egg, we may be sure that the
sacrifice of its tiny vital existence is absolutely
painless ; and the more spiritual of us may reach
a higher plane of satisfaction by accepting its
pure white expansions, after the fatal heat, as
metaphorical angels' wings.

^Vhile we sit around the cozy hearth with red-
dened cheeks, after the bombardment in our pop-
per has ceased and the munching has begun, let
us listen to a short story about this transformation
which, in a twinkling, changes the yellow, stony
little kernel into a tender, white, delicious morsel,
monstrous and ragged. What is the power and
process of this fantastic jugglery ? Like all
white magic, it is simple when understood ; and
knowing the secret, we may find intellectual
pleasure also in what is so fascinating to the eye
and so grateful to the palatg.

Under favorable circumstances one may oc-
casionally see, while po])ping com, little puffs
of white vapor issuing from the popper. One
might reasonably presume this to be steam or
water-vapor ; but, in order to make sure of it, I
popped half-a-dozen grains in a small beaker,
the mouth of which was stopped loosely with a
cork, holding the beaker over a gas flame. The
result was the generation of so much steam that
it hissed out around the cork and gave my fin-
gers a lively sensation of heat. This seemed
almost conclusive on that point, but it occurred
to me to weigh the com before and after pop-
ping, and this led to the discovery that more
than ten per cent, of the weight of the corn is
lost in the process, and this loss is doubtless the
water which escapes. So that our popperful of
com — a bulk between fifty and one hundred
times as great as it was originally — really weighs
less than when we started ! But this only half
explains what takes i)lace when the grain ex-
plodes. It is not quite plain why the expanding
steam should puff the com out into a crisp white
mass instead of blowing it to atoms, and the real
inwardness of the matter will be apparent only
by comparing the structure of the seed as Nature
has finished it with its structure after it is popped.
To do this, we must cut a very thin slice, thinner
than this paper, through the middle of the grain
of com, and magnify it very highly. Figure i
shows a very small part of such a slice as it ap-
peared under my microscope. If the whole
grain could be seen enlarged to the same extent,
it would stand higher than one's head and look
like an immense bowlder. Now the whole grain

WHY CORN POPS.

is made up of little sacs, or bags, which botanists
call '• cells," and the figure represents a group
of these cells from the center of a grain of rice-
corn as they appear in a slice, much in the
same way as we see the sacs in a thin slice
of lemon, only in the com they are, of course.

far too small to be seen by the naked eye.
The heavier lines show the boundaries of the
cells. Each cell, of which there are thousands
in the entire grain, is packed tightly mth little
granules of starch. These are shown in the fig-
ure completely filling up the cells, and it is to
this compact arrangement of starch-granules that
the com owes its hardness. Much the greater
part of the grain consists of these cells crowded
full of starch, although the remainder is really
the most important, %-ital part : that is, the em-
br)-o, which under proper conditions initiates
the growth of the seed; the starch being merely
a little store of food upon which the young shoot
feeds until it is established and able to take care
of itself. And, by the way, the cereals which
are so extensively used as food are, like the com,
largely composed of this same substance, starch.
Understanding now what there is in the kernel
of com, let us look at a thin slice of the same
com after it is popped, and see if we can make
out what has become of the cells and the starch.
Figure 2 shows such a slice, magnified to the
same extent as the first, as well as it can be
represented by a diagram, for its delicacy and
transparency can not be readily represented on
paper. Here we have apparently a similar
structure of cells; but compare their size with the
other slice. They are smaller than the original
cells and much larger than the starch-granules,
so it is reasonable to conclude that these ap-
parent cells are the starch-granules themselves

swelled up by the steam. This is the fact ; so
they are not cells at all in the botanical sense.
Simple chemical tests prove that they are starch.
But the granules are no longer solid ; they have
been blown up into vesicles, or balloons, and the
steam in forcing its escape not only ruptures
many of the vesicles, but splits and tears its
way all through the mass, making rifts and chan-
nels leading to the air. Most of them are too
minute, however, to be seen with the naked eye.
The figure shows one of these rifts, and the ragged
edges of the ruptured vesicles can be seen. On
the right side, part of the broken cell-wall is in-

(m,

r^4^

dicated. Only the starchy part pops ; the em-
bryo, of which I have spoken, simply shrinks
and turns brown.

We may yet speculate on the details of the
process. In what condition is the interior of the
grain just before it explodes ? The common ex-
perience of the kitchen and laundry will help us
here. In making up the mixture for stiffening
clothes, the laundress puts starch into water and
boils it, and we all know that in this process the
starch loses its powdery character and becomes
blended with the water into a pasty, translucent
mass. The effect upon the individual starch-
granule is a softening and considerable increase
of its bulk and, finally, its rupture and diffusion
through the water. While we can not see the
inside of the grain at the critical moment when
it has all but burst, we may, in view of what we
now know, probably surmise the truth. Is it not
very likely that, as the grain gets hotter and
hotter, the moisture present in the cells, or in
the starch-granules themselves, softens them first,
and then, when the heat becomes too great to
permit its remaining in the fluid state, it suddenly
turns to steam, and the now plastic starch ex-

WHY CORN POPS.

pands in every direction forming the little vesicles
shown in the figure, losing at the same time, of
course, the moisture and thus becoming firm
and brittle again ?

This is the conclusion to which I have been
brought, and I think of the wonderful physics
of popped com with great satisfaction whenever
I shake my popper over the glowing coals.

WINTER APPLES.

By Hattie Whitney.

What cheer is there that is half so good.
In the snowy waste of a winter night,

As a dancing fire of hickory wood.
And an easy-chair in its mellow light,

And a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek.

Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek ?

A russet apple is fair to view.

With a tawny tint like an autumn leaf,

The warmth of a ripened corn-field's hue.
Or golden hint of a harvest sheaf;

And the wholesome breath of the finished year

Is held in a winesap's blooming sphere.

They bring you a thought of the orchard trees,
In blossomy April and leafy June,

And the sleepy droning of bumble-bees.
In the lazy light of the afternoon,

And tangled clover and bobolinks,

Tiger-lilies and garden pinks.

If you 've somewhere left, with its gables wide,
A farm-house set in an orchard old.

You '11 see it all in the winter-tide
At sight of a pippin's green-and-gold,

Or a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek.

Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek.

KITTIE'S BEST FRIEND.

By M. Helen Lovett.

S AMMA ! Mamma ! " cried
Kittie Perry, running
into the house early
one afternoon and
throwing down her
school - books, " the
new people are mov-
ing in next door."

" So I see, Kittie,"
said Mrs. Perry.
" And, Mamma, there 's a httle girl there just
about as big as me. I just saw her going in.
I 'm awfully glad ! I 'm 'most crazy for some
one to play with since the Cooks went away.
May Kingsley 's the only other girl on the
block, and we 're having a tiff now. I 'm going
right in to see that girl and find out what her
name is."

" Kittie ! " said her mother, catching her just
in time as she was flying out of the room, " you
must not go. The little girl's mother would n't
like it. I 'm sure I should n't have wished the
neighbors' children to come in here the day we
moved. We had confusion enough without
that."

" But, Mamma, I must, for I need some one
to play with, and May Kingsley and I are angry
at each other and I can't speak to her for a
week."

" I 'm afraid you will not be able to do that,
Kittie," said Mamma, laughing.

" I 'm afraid not," said Kittie, with a sigh.
" I '11 tell you how it was. I wanted to play
jackstones, and May wanted to play paper dolls,
and — " Mamma was trying to write a letter,
but Kittie's tongue kept on pitilessly for ten
minutes. Then she paused to take breath.
" Well, that 's the reason I can't speak to her
for a week. Mamma, and I must have some one
to play with. So, Mamma, why can't I go in
and see the girl next door ? "

"I 've told you why, Kittie. And now you

must not talk to me any more until I 've finished
this letter."

But Kittie kept on talking as she stood by
the window, for to talk to herself was better
than nothing. " There 's a sled ; that 's a girl's
sled, and I don't see any other, so I suppose it 's
the girl's. There are a doll's carriage and two
dolls' trunks. Why does n't the man turn them
so I can see better ? There ! Why, there 's a
name on the end ! C-a — oh, I see, Carrie; no,
Clara, — Clara L. Parsons. That 's a pretty
name. Oh, dear ! I wish to-morrow 'd come."

To-morrow did come, — that is, the next day
did (some people say " to-nuvroiu does n't"), —
but it rained, and Kittie could n't go out in the
afternoon. Thursday, however, when she came
home from school, her new little neighbor was
sitting on the piazza with one of the trunks open
before her, and a beautiful doll on her lap.
Kittie glanced at her, and the little girl looked
so friendly that Kittie nodded. Her neighbor
nodded in reply. Kittie went up the steps.
" Would n't you like me to come and play with
you ? " she asked.

The little girl looked as if she would, but did
not make any reply.

" She 's shy," said Kittie to herself. " How
funny." Then aloud, "I '11 get my doll; only
it is n't nice as yours. Shall I ? " The girl
nodded.

Kittie ran into her own home, and up to the
play-room, where she snatched up her best doll,
rejecting the second best as not grand enough
to associate with Clara L. Parsons and her
family.

" Mamma," she called out, " I 'm going to
play with the girl next door."

" Did she ask you, Kittie ? " said Mrs. Perry,
coming into the hall.

"Yes, Mamma; at least, I asked if I should
come, and she said yes. She would have asked
me, I know, but she seems shy ! "

" Well, you can go for a few minutes. Don't
stay long." Kittie rushed off.

The little girl was sitting with her back turned,
and did not move until Kittie came all the way
up the steps ; but then she gave a pleased look
of welcome.

" Here 's my doll," .said Kittie, sitting down.
" It is n't as nice as yours, is it ? " Clara nodded.
Kittie thought her a very polite girl, for Bella
was only two-thirds the size of Clara's doll.
" Her name 's Bella," she announced. " What
is your doll's name ? I suppose Clara Parsons
is your name, is n't it ? I see Parsons there on
your door-i)late. Oh, may I look at the things
in your trunk ? What a lovely party-dress ! Did
you make it ? No, I guess you did n't, 'cause I
see part of it 's made on the machine, and I
don't suppose you can sew on the machine.
Mamma wont let me touch ours. I made
that blue dress, though, — almost all myself.
What darling dolls' handkerchiefs, and oh, what
lovely little visiting-cards! 'Stella Parsons';
is that her name ? Stella rhymes with Bella,
does n't it? they ought to be friends; let 's
introduce them."

She held Bella up toward Stella, and Clara
held up Stella and made her shake hands with
her visitor and then kiss her.

" Now they 're acquainted," said Kittie. " Let
us pretend they have taken a great fancy to each
other, as I have to you. 1 wish you 'd be my
best friend, for I have n't one now. Fanny
Cook used to be, but she 's moved away ; she
lived in that yellow house across the way ; and
May Kingsley is n't ; we get mad at each other;
and she talks so much ; if you tell her a secret,
everybody is sure to know it. Oh, my name 's
Kittie Perry ; I did n't tell you, did I ? My
brother's name 's Frank, and my sister's name
is Amy, but they 're both big, nearly grown up,
so I don't have any one home to play with. That
lady at the second-story window is your mother,
I suppose ? That 's my mother in a blue dress
— on our stoop just now. That lady in brown
that went in with her is Mrs. Fraim. She 's
deaf and dumb. Did you ever know anybody
who was ? It 's so funny to see them talk. I
can say a few words. See. This means man ;
this means woman ; this means dinner ; . tliis
means a bouquet of flowers."

KITTIE S BEST FRIEND.

(Nov.

Kittie made the morions as she spoke, and
Clara, smiling brightly and looking pleased,
made them too, but much more deftly and
gracefully than Kittie.

" And this means a baby with long clothes,"
continued Kittie. Clara shook her head, and
made a motion a little difierent.

" Oh, yes, that is it," said Kittie. " How
quick you learn ! I '11 teach you some more
some day ; then, if you ever meet a deaf person,
you can talk to them. But it must be dreadful,
must n't it ? — to be deaf and dumb, and not to
be able to talk. Why, / '</ tiie .'" (I almost be-
lieve Kittie would.) "And their language —
why I could n't talk as much in a minute as in
a week in our way — no, no, I mean in a week
as in a minute. Oh, what are you doing ? "

Clara had taken Bella and removed her dress.
She then picked uj) the dress that Kittie had
admired, and holding it against Stella showed
that it was too small ; then buttoning it on Bella
she laid the doll back in Kittie's lap and looked
up with a smile.

" Do you mean to give it to me ? " cried Kit-
tie, delighted. " Oh, you darling ! It 's aw-
fully pretty. Kiss the lady, Bella, my child.
Now I ought to do something for Stella. Let
me see, — when she has the measles, you send for
me, 'cause I 've had experience. She '11 be sure
to get them ; they 're very relci'ant this spring.
Oh, dear, there 's Mamma calling me. Wait
here, and I '11 be back soon."

Mrs. Perry had called Kittie to go upstairs
and try on her new dress, and this occupied
nearly half an hour. When she returned to the
piazza next door, Clara had gone and so had
Stella and her trunk. Only Bella remained,
sitting on the doorstep in the party-dress which
had been presented to her, and holding in her
lap a piece of paper on which was written, in a
round, childish, but neat and legible hand : " I
can't wait any longer for you. I 'm going out
with Mamma. Come again to-morrow."

Kittie came late to the tea-table that evening,
and did not notice at first that everybody was
very much amused at something.

" Kittie," said Frank, " did you get acquainted
with the girl next door ? "

" Yes ; she 's awfully nice ; her name 's Clara
Parsons. What made you call me in, that time,

KITTIE S BEST FRIEND.

Mamma ? She said she could n't play much
longer, she had to go out with her mother ; and
when I came back she was gone."

" Did you have much conversation with her? "
asked Papa.

" Yes, Papa ; I think I was there half an
hour."

" It was more than an hour," said Amy.
" I saw you. But I think you did all the
talking yourself."

Kiltie was indignant at this accusation, al-
though it was not a new one. " It would n't be
very polite to go and see a person and never
say a word, would it ? " she said.

" You '11 never be so impohte, certainly," said
Frank.

" And she gave me the prettiest dress for
Bella. It was one that was in her doll's trunk,
but it was too small for her doll. I '11 show it
to you after tea."

" Now, Kittie," said Mamma, " try to remem-
ber the exact words she said about the dress, or
about anything else you talked of."

" The exact words," repeated Kittie, slowly.
She looked thoughtful, then perplexed. " It 's
queer, but somehow I forget the e.xact words."

" Well, Kittie, we don't blame you. Mrs.
Fraim was here this afternoon, and she was
speaking about the family next door, the Par-
sons. .She knows them very well ; and this little
girl — her name is Clara — is deaf and dumb.
She can't speak a word."

Kittie dropped the biscuit she was eating, and
the blankness which overspread her face was
too much for the gravity of the family. They all
laughed. ■

" So, Kittie," said Papa, " you must have had

all the talk to yourself, and, if I know you, you
must have enjoyed it exceedingly!"

Kittie still looked so dazed that Mamma came
to her assistance.

" What did she say about going out with her
mother ? "

" Why — she wrote that; but that was because
I was away."

" And what did she say when she gave you
the doll's dress ? "

" She put it on Bella and handed it to me.
Maybe she did n't say anything."

" And did she tell you her name was Clara
Parsons ? "

'■ Yes — why — well, I asked her and she said
yes; — no, I believe she nodded. She nodded
quite often. But if she can't hear how could
she tell when to nod ? "

Kittie asked this triumphantly.

" Mrs. Fraim says she is a bright little thing,
and often can tell what people are saying by
watching their lips ; and then perhaps she thought
it was polite to agree with you even when she
did n't understand."

" Now perhaps you '11 believe how much you
talk," said Frank. " I promise you ten cents if
you keep quiet all the rest of tea-time, because
I know you can't."

" Yes, I can," said Kittie ; " but I 'm not
going to."

The other day, when I was calling on Mrs.
Perry, I asked, " How is the little girl ne.xt door
whom I heard about, Kittie ? "

" She 's lovely," said Kittie. " I 'm going
to have her for my best friend; I don't care
who laughs. I can tell all my secrets to /u-r."

:™^-

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

By Frederick E. Partington.

TELL of a shoe and a boy;
of a bicycle and the river
Rhine, — of the Rhine that
creeps through a town
where years ago the mayor
and coq)oration, all for
love of the children and the
fear of a chance false note,
banished all the hand-or-
gans and the hurdy-gurdies
beyond the city walls. And
yet there is music still in the
streets of the old town, —
that same familiar, inces-
sant, ringing melody rising
forever from all the pave-
ments of Northern Eu-
rope,— the music of the wooden shoes. It was
Gretchen who played on them as she galloped
across the court-yard before sunrise ; it was the
butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker
who played on them as they clattered so early
along the gabled streets of the city ; it was
surely the fish-wives and the flower-girls and
the milk-maids and blue-bloused Dieruimaniier
who pounded them on the pavements of the
market-place and sent up a symphony of
clickity-clicks and laughter ; but better than all
the rest, it was a thousand children, on a glori-
ous afternoon, who rushed out of school — a
common Volkschule — and made earth and air
and sky ring with the music of their wooden
shoes.

The rain was over, the sun was bursting forth
in floods of strange yellow light, and torrents of
water rushed madly along the gutters. Verily,
was there ever a ri\'er so mighty and delightful
to boys as this sw-oUen street-tide after the
storm ? How they go plunging to the depths
of it I And how these hundreds of lads, \nth
knapsacks on their backs, yelled with glee when
they saw it. It was the work of a second to
strip off the stockings and cram them into pock-

ets along with the strings and the marbles, — the
work of a second to do this, and, with a wooden
shoe in either hand, rush to the flooded street
and cry, " Who '11 have a race ? "

"/£■// !—Ach-ja .'—Ich audi !—Ich — Ich ! "
rang through the streets like the cries of the hot
crusaders. Every boy and a hundred girls ac-
cepted the challenge. And so, on either side
the way, they ranged themselves, and into the
rushing gutters launched their wooden shoes !
It was a sight for St. Nicholas ! Never since
the carnivals of Venice or the day of the great
Armada had there floated a fleet so wonderful
as this! Hundreds and hundreds of shoes, —
large ones, small ones, broad ones, and narrow
ones, black and red and yellow and gray, some
bright with the trappings of leather and brass,
some hastily rigged with a pencil for mainmast
and paper for a sail, but all of them buoyant and
whizzing and careering along like the bouncing
galleys of the olden time. The street rocked
with excitement, and the excitement rose to
battle-cries when, as in all great races, the
shoes began to show individual qualities and
fall into classes — the great craft scudding
ahead and the smaller ones forging along in
one mad mob behind.

The course lay through the gutters of a long
narrow street, unbroken by cross-ways for an
eighth of a mile, when the rain-river suddenly
ended by turning abruptly and diving into a
sewer. This seemed to be generally known by
the children, for they took good care to follow
the shoes to the corner and snatch them up in
time to save them from a very yawning and
horrible abyss.

The race of the big boats had finished ; the
owners had rushed back to the start again, and
now down the foaming torrent came bobbing
and bumping away the fleet of younger craft.
Litde mattered it to the children — the question
of center-board sloops and cutters ! It was
simply a fleet of chubby little smacks with

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

pointed noses and fluted decks, and gay leather, '■Juch'" screamed the boys, "Oswald wins!

and brazen nails around the gunwales. On Now grab thy shoe or thou 'It lose it!"

came the yachts, on flew the children. A hun- It was the acme of genuine excitement. There

dred feet, and the race is over. followed a wild scramble for the shoes. Oswald

THE FLEET OF WOODEN SHOES.

" See the little red-trimmed shoe," yelled a
boy with eyes like saucers! "See! — it 's
mine ! "

" And see the black one with a sail ! " cried a
girl, joyfully. " That 's mine ! "

The race was clearly between the two. Fifty
feet — thirty feet — twenty feet — ten! — and the
red-trimmed one was far ahead !
Vol.. XVII.— u.

the winner, frantic with joy, sprang forward to
catch his own, when alas ! alas ! he tripped and
fell ; and alas ! and ten times alas ! away shot
the shoe, turned the fatal comer, and swish! —
disappeared through the great black hole of the
.sewer! Poor Oswald and his fellows stood dazed.
Never in his whole nine years of life had Os-
wald known a calamity such as this.

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

[Nov.

" It 's gone ! It 's lost ! Ach ! It 's lost ! " he
cried, wringing his hands while the tears rained
down his cheeks.

And there was no help for it. ^Vhat mattered
it to Oswald even if some tender-hearted boys

and wth the confused and liberal prompting of
the e-xcited throng, he quickly told the story.

Seth listened perplexed, till suddenly, all like
a flash, came a thought to his bright little mind.

" Hurrah ! " he cried almost aloud. And then.

"*7 i/Ji > ^

':.-^

rHli KACH. (SKK NKXr I'AOK.)

t/iif offer him their marbles ? What mattered it
even if a sweet little maiden ///</ try to console
him and wipe the, tears from his eyes with the
comer of her checkered ajiron ? Nay, the whole
world was nothing, compared to that shoe. It
was lost; and if be had to go home without it,
he knew that he might as well have been lost
himself. His grief was desperate, and sdll he
stood weeping and still the children vainly
offered sympathy, when round the comer ap-
peared Seth Hardy on his bicycle. It was about
the only one in the whole town where Seth was
attending school, and there was not a boy or
a girl to whom the magic wheel and its rider
were not well known.

'• See the Amcrikaner / " cried the crowd, as
Seth came whirling along.

He spied the troop of children, noticed Os-
wald in tears, and stopped to leam the cause.

" Ach ! mein Herr, it 's gone — lost ! "

" What is gone ? "

" My shoe, my shoe I " And between the sobs.

with right forefinger in the palm of his left hand,
— just as Herr Dr. N. of the school always
did, — he reasoned it out so quickly that the Ger-
man boys stood dumb with wonder. " Also ! "
he continued, half in German, " gutter to sewer
— sewer to — it must turn into Schumann
.Strasse, run along Wilhelm Strasse, and then,
bang I into the Rhine ! "

And before a lad of them could say Jack
Robinson in (ierman, off flew Seth on his
bicycle toward the river. Scores and scores of
children rushed panting and shouting after him,
while httle Oswald Keller, with a lone shoe
under his arm, dashed the tears away, and,
though hardly realizing what it all meant, sped
like a deer two rods ahead of them all. A whirl
to the left, a spin of a block, a whirl to the right,
and Seth had reached the Rhine. The rains
of many days had swollen it to the danger point
and the water was still rising. Another foot
and, instead of the sewers rushing into the Rhine,
the Rhine would be rushing into the sewers.

1889.]

A RACE WITH A WOODEN SHOE.

Jumping from his wheel, Seth ran to the bank,
peered up and down and caught the spot where,
whiding in muddy commotion, the sewer met
the river. Thither he flew, — the crowd with
him, — when, just as he had snatched an oar for
stopping the fugitive the moment it appeared,
a hundred throats yelled in a tremble of excite-
ment, " Ach ! The shoe ! The shoe ! " And
lo ! out from the black hole and far into the
stream shot the wooden shoe. Seth had not
been quick enough, and now it was beyond his
reach. He saw it whirl and whirl, and dally in
an eddy ; and then, to his dismay and the grief
of them all, saw it slowly enter the main current
and speed away to the north.

'■ Stay here," cried Seth excitedly to Oswald
and the rest. "Stay here — I '11 soon be back,"
and jumping on the bicycle again, he laid his
head close to the very handle and vanished
down the road that wound along the river.

" 'T is a race with the Rhine," he thought,
" and it 's a poor wheel that can't win it ! " And
away he went, till after a stretch of two miles he

came to the bend and the village of L .

The banks were lined with boats and the men
were busy bailing out and scouring.

"It 's a shoe!" screamed Seth, as, he came
flying among them. " It 's a shoe! It 's coming
yonder — this side the middle of the river — and
I '11 give five marks to any man that picks it up ! "

How many men leaped into their boats, and
how many boats shot into the Rhine, or what
the wives, and the people, and the kind old vil-
lage priest, and the burly fat mayor all thought
will never be known ; but the women stood
wringing their hands, and the priest said some-
thing solemn in Latin, and the mayor took out
his note-book as if, indeed, a man were drown-
ing. But Seth saw nothing except the boats.

He saw them scatter, and it seemed to him as if
they stretched away for miles. He saw them
stemming the current and darting back and
forth like fish ; and then of a sudden he heard a
cry and saw the boats all inilling for the shoe.
He saw — ah I joy of earth ! — it was the shoe !
and the boatmen coming reverently forward and
mumbling, and bowing, and .stammering, and
placing at last in his hands the precious little
red-bound runaway.

The mayor stared, the priest stared, the women
stared. "And the body ?" they gasped. '-Where
is the body? "

Seth was too excited to explain. He flung
the five marks to the man, jumped to his wheel
again, and, while the people chattered and shook
their heads, he vanished, it seemed to them, into
the very skies above.

And so he came speedily to where the chil-
dren waited, and amid the shouts of bravo .' and
blessings he restored the .shoe to little Oswald ;
and then with the happy owner he went to the
humble home and, telling the tale to the mother
Gretchen, begged the shoes away for the price
of a new and a better pair.

And it came to pass after many, many months,
when Seth had left school and had returned to
his home in America, that everybody would ask
about a funny little shoe that stood with the
cups, and the vases, and the beautiful bric-a-
brac in the nooks of a fine old library. It was
the same wonderful shoe of which you have
just been reading. I am sure it is the shoe, for
here it is before my very eyes, with the same
pointed toe, and the same fluted upper and
the same gay leather and shiny brass nails that
it had on the day when it sailed in the streets
and under the ground and raced with a bicycle
down the swollen Rhine.

JACK-IX-THE-PULPIT.

[Nov.

"r^'

TH E-PULPIT.

A WELCOME to US all, my hearers ! Wc all have
been parted for a time, and now that November
brings us together again in her crisp, sudden way,
we may as well proceed to business as if nothing
had happened.

The birds, as you know, bring many pleasant let-
ters to your Jack from friends all over the world,
but seldom has so pleasant a letter been dropped
on this pulpit as this which you now shall hear:

Dear Jack-in-thf.-I'ii.pit : Are you aware that you
have an Italian cousin, who lives at Mentone, and is
called // Capiiccino / (the little friar.) There is a clois-
ter near by, where some Capuchin friars dwell, and look
out at the gay world from beneath their brown hoods.
But this cousin seem to be a hermit as well as a friar, for
he lives out-of-doors, all by himself When he preaches
it certainly is in the Italian language. But he is not so
fortunate as to possess a department of his own in a
charming magazine ; and therefore it is probable he
knows much more than he ever tells. His name is
Brother .\rum .Arisarum ; and he has intrusted to me a
little rhymed letter of greeting to his American cousin.

E. C.

I am a little friar.

Beneath a wild-rose brier
I tell my beads of dew.

My cousin, I admire

Your preaching, and desire
To write some words to you.

All in my pulpit green,
Quite like yourself, I 'm seen

When little people go
Playing their games between
The lemon boughs that lean

From slopes of Monaco.

'Tis strange they never task
My skill, nor questions ask

Such as to you they bring.
My cowl might be mask
Of zany, or a cask

Empty of everything!

They leave me here alone,
A hermit by a stone.

The shadowy woods within:
I think they have not known
A. friend to every one

Is the poor Capuchin.

Now if you should intend
Some words to me to send,

The birds, flying south, will bear 'em ;
How gladly will I bend
My hood to hear ! Your friend,

F7-a Anttn Arisaniin.

I thank you very much. Cousin Arisarum, for this
fair greeting, and commend to you these thousands
of good children who, like myself, have become
true friends of yours through your gentle message.
No longer shall you feel alone, "a hermit by a
stone," for crowds and crowds of listening children
will be near you, "the shadow y woods within," ready
to catch the nod of your little brown hood.

the knov^ing woodpecker.

San Francisco, California.
Dear Jack : In one of your pleasant talks I
learned how Mexican birds store acorns for winter
use. Here is an extract from a newspaper, in which
it seems to me the birds show even more intelli-
gence than their Mexican cousins. Do any of your
California readers know it to be true? Avis.

In California the woodpecker stores acorns away
although he never cats them. He bores several holes
differing slightly in size, at the fall of the year, invariably
in a pine tree. Then he hnds an acorn, which he adjusts
to one of the holes prepared for its reception. But he
does not eat the acorn, for, as a rule, he is not a vegeta-
ri.in. His object in storing away the acorns exhibits
foresight and a knowledge of results more akin to reason
than to instinct. The succeeding winter the acorn re-
mains intact, but, becoming saturated, is predisposed to
decay, when it is attacked by maggots, which seem to
delight in this special food. It is then that the wood-
pecker reaps the harvest his wisdom has provided, at a
time when, the ground being covered with snow, he
would experience a difficulty otherwise in obtaining suit-
able or palatable food.

THE FRIGATE-BIRD.

Have any of my hearers ever seen a live frigate-
bird ? It is said that this bird is the swiftest flyer
known. Read about him, my friends, and tell your
Jack how he obtained this nautical name. Give.
too, his highest record of speed according to good
authorities.

THAT BICYCLE PATH.

CERT.4IN boys hereabout have asked your Jack
about a proposed bicycle road, — or, rather, path —
from New York to Connecticut, for which they have
been anxiously waiting ; but this pulpit could give
them no information on the subject. Practical
bicyclers generally skim by so rapidly that it is
not worth while to ask questions of them ; and
beginners usually are too much occupied, in pick-
ing themselves up and getting on again, to take
much interest in very long roads — so tidings of

lACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

this new project liave been hard to obtain. Here
comes a letter from Troy, however, which throws
either light or darkness upon it, according to the
way one takes it.

Troy, X. Y.
Dear J.\CK-i.\-THE- Pulpit : I am a boy and a bicycler,
and therefore I hailed with delight a paragraph which I
saw in the Portland Transcript, a good paper which
sometimes is sent to us by a down-east relative. This
is it :

"Mr. A. G. Fisher, of New Haven, Conn., proposes
to build a cinder path from New York to New Haven
for the benefit of bicycle riders. It is to be three feet
in width and laid at the side of the present road ; to be
built, however, only where the existing roads are not
good. The ]>ath will be about seventy miles in length,
and the average cost of building is estimated at $75 jier
mile, or a total of $5250. A little over ten per cent, of
the amount has already been subscribed. The various
bicycle clubs are expected to assist the enterprise."

Now, I 'd like to know how this proposed road is get-
ting on, and, instead of bothering Mr. A. G. Fisher, of
New Haven, with the question, I think I '11 ask the wide-
awake crowd around your pulpit if they can tell me any-
thing about the project. Is it alive or not ? and if it 's
alive, how is it? Your Aoung friend, T. G. H .

RED SCHOOLHOUSE QUERIES.

Who among iny hearers can tell the origin of
the words TINKER and ALMANAC? And why is
an inn-keeper often called a LANDLORD ?

A VETERAN ROSE-BUSH.

De.\r Jack : I have read lately that the oldest rose-
bush in the world, of which there is authentic record,
grows in a church-yard, and against the old church at
Hildesheim, Germany. The main stem is thicker than
a man's body, but it has required over eight hundred
years to attain this remarkable size.

Have any of your "chicks " ever seen this huge rose-
bush in bloom ?

Yours respectfully, .\ Big Boy.

A NEBRASKA SHOW.

A FRIEND, to whom many thanks are due, has
sent you all the way from Nebraska a photograph
of a dozen or inore of the finest pumpkins that
ever gladdened human hearts on Thanksgiving day.

There is noneedof your Jack giving you any agri-
cultural rhetoric on this occasion. The puinpkins
speak for themselves. One of them (probably
the fine specimen in the lower left-hand corner)
measured, I am told, exactly eight feet in circum-
ference ; that is, it would take a string eight feet
long to go around it. Well, well ! Thousands of
you might have been supplied with pies, this
inonth, from this one Nebraska field alone !

Before turning to another subject, let us thank
the cheery-looking Nebraskan, in the corner, for
giving us an opportunity to compare the relative
sizes of vegetable and man.

ftl..

/- •» ...

'' : ^v:i|-^=r?\^

lilt. I-IMi'KINS, 0 HUM A niOTOGK.vril TAKIiN IN A NKLIRASKA I'lMl'KlN-FIEl.D.)

■ A i.kNM as I J^t,\l»L.K

OVER THE WAEL.

Bv Anna H. Bkanch.

I LiKK to sit beside a wall
Among the grasses green.
And think, if over I should peep,
What things might there be seen.

Perhaps I 'd see bold Robin Hood,
With arrows, bow, and brand ;
He 'd fix his outlawed e)'es on me
.And shake a threatening hand.

Then, in some terror, I decide
That it can not be he ;

But that some nymph from Fairyland
Is waiting there for me.

.■\nd then I think that — oh ! perhaps —
The world has quite turned over.
And China and Japan have come
This side the sky's blue cover.

At that, I can not stand it more.
But over have to look.
And see — the dear old e very-day
Careen meadow, and the brook !

f^OMf

( A 'onsensf V \'>se. )

Once there lived a little gnome,

Who had made his little home

Right down in the middle of the earth, earth, earth.

He was full of fun and frolic.

But his wife was melancholic,

And he never could divert her into mirth, mirth, mirth.

He had tried her with a monkey,

And a parrot and a donkey,

And a pig that squealed whene'er he pulled its tail, tail, tail.

But though he laughed himself

Into fits, the jolly elf.

Still his wifey's melancholy did not fail, fail, fail.

" I will hie me," said the gnome,
" From my worthy earthy home,

I will go among the dwellings of the men, men, men.

Soiiu't/ii/ii^ funny there must be, that will make her sa)- ' He ! he !

I will find it, and will bring it her again, 'gain, 'gain."
87

THE LITTLE GNOME.

[Nov.

So he traveled here

and there.
And he saw the Bhnk-

ing Bear,
And the Pattypol

whose eyes are

in his tail, tail,

tail.

He saw the Chingo Chee,

And a lovely sight was he,

With a ringlet, and a ribbon

on his nose, nose, nose.

THE OCTOPUS AND WHALE.

And the C)ctopus a-waltzing
with the whale, whale,
whale.

And the Cantilunar Dog,
Who was throwing cotton

flannel at his foes,

foes, foes.

THE CANTILliNAR DOG.

THE LITTLE GNOME. 89

All these the little gnome

Transported to his home,

And set them down before his weeping wife, wife, wife.

But she only cried and cried,

And she sobbywobbed and sighed,

Till she really was in danger of her hfe, life, life.

Then the gnome was in despair.
And he tore his purple hair.

And he sat him down in sorrow on a stone, stone, stone.
" I, too," he said, " will cry.
Till I tumble down and die,
For I 've had enough of laughing all alone, 'lone, 'lone."

His tears they flowed away

Like a rivulet at play.

With a bubble, gubble, rubble, o'er the ground, ground, ground.

But when this his wifey saw,

She loudly cried, " Haw ! haw !

Here, at last, is something funny you have found, found, found."

She laughed, " Ho ! ho ! he ! he ! "

And she chuckled loud with glee.

And she wiped away her little husband's tears, tears, tears.

And since then, through wind and weather.

They have said " He ! he ! " together.

For several hundred thousand merry years, years, years.

THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

By Mary V. Worstell.

A RICH man once said to me, " I have heard books ? I fancy that he did. But the busy

people say that if they had enough money they man who purchased that wonderful bootjack

could easily select Christmas gifts. Now, for doubtless had given no thought to the matter

the last two hours, I have been trying to find of his Christmas gifts until nearly the 25th of

something to suit my son-in-law. Finally, in de- December, that consummate flower of the

spair, I have bought him a fifty-dollar bootjack whole year, and then he must needs buy one

that you could n't hire me to keep in the house." of the first things he saw, provided only that it

A fifty-dollar bootjack ! What a confused did not cost too much or too little,
jumble my mind was for the next few minutes. With the bootjack incident still in my mind.

Bootjacks, indeed ! I was thinking of a book- I shall suggest various gifts, just by way of be-

store I had visited that morning — of the man}^ nevolently preventing my fellow-creatures from

beautiful books, artistically printed and richly receiving absurd or useless presents. Those \\ho

bound, which those fifty dollars would have are wealthy can usually find lovely and artistic

purchased. Did not the son-in-law care for gifts at Tiftany's or stores of similar rank. iMy
Vol. XVIL— 12.

THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

[Nov.

suggestions are for those lucky individuals with
■whom money is not so plentiful as to make the
■wish for a thing and its possession synonymous.

The most puzzling task at Christmas is to
select presents for fathers and brothers. Two
years ago, a certain young woman (this by way
of reminiscence) failed to find anything she
thought suitable for her brother. But after much
perplexity a coffee cup and saucer, daintil)-
decorated, was selected, and it was gratefully
used at about three hundred and si.xty breakfasts
during the following year. The next ) ear a cut-
glass salt-cellar and pepper-box were given. Be-
sides these and similar articles, one might try
canvas or linen slipper-cases, made to hang
against the wall, inkstands and other articles
for desks, silver match-boxes, razors (for which
the traditional penny should be exacted), shaving-
glasses, cases of shaving-paper, or, that always
welcome friend, a silk muffler. A case for
carrying collars and cuffs when traveling, is a
useful present for many. The outside may be
of any material available, and the lining should
be of silk ; but a stiff interlining of buckram
should be inserted. In short, make it like a
music-roll, but not so wide, and fasten it with a
fancy leather strap and buckle. Decorate the
outside with some pretty device, — the initials
or monogram of the prospective owner.

I shall make no further suggestions of articles
especially suitable for the sterner sex, but among
the presents which will do equally well for either
father or mother, brother or sister, maj' be
mentioned umbrellas; umbrella-cases; chairs of
more or less elaborate workmanship, from the
pretty wicker or rattan chair to those which are
profusely carved or richly upholstered ; opera-
glasses, gloves, handkerchiefs and handkerchief-
cases, gold pencils, fountain pens, card-cases,
napkin-rings, and books.

A little rule of mine in buying books may not
come amiss. It is this : AVhen a person's means
will permit only a small library, never buy any
book that will not bear reading more than once.
Still, most of what is called " current literature"
may be bought for a low price, the chances
being that its flimsy binding will outwear its
popularity.

This is what Charles Lamb says about the
binding of books : " To be strong-backed and

neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume.
Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be
afibrded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of
books indiscriminately. I would not dress a set of
magazines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille
or half-binding (with Russia backs ever) is our
costume. A Shakspere or a Milton (unless the
first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out
in gay apparel. The possession of them confers
no distinction. The exterior of them (the things
themselves being so common), strange to say,
raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of
property in the owner. Thomson's ' Seasons,'
again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn and
dog's-eared."

In regard to reading good books, Ruskin says :

" Do you know, if you read this, you cannot
read that — that what you lose to-day you can-
not gain to-morrow ? Will you go and gossip
with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when
you may talk with queens and kings ; or flatter
yourself that it is with any worthy consciousness
of your own claims to respect that you jostle
with the common crowd for entree here, and
audience there, when all the while tliis eternal
court is open to you, with its society wide as
the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen,
and the mighty, of every place and time ?
Into that you may enter always; in that you
may take fellowship and rank according to
your wish ; from that, once entered into it, you
can never be outcast but by your own fault ; by
your aristocracy of companionship there, your
own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly
tested, and the motives \vith which you strive
to take high place in the society of the living,
measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that
are in them, by the place you desire to take in
this company of the dead.

" ' The place you desire,' and the place you
Jit yourself for, I must also say; because, ob-
serve, this court of the past differs from all Uving
aristocracy in this: — it is open to labor and
to merit, but to notliing else. No wealth will
bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the
guardian of those Elysian gates. In the deep
sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters
there."

A small bookcase need not be expensive to
be pretty, and a small revolving bookcase, made

1889.]

THE MONTH BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

especially for holding books of reference, is a
delight to a reader.

Many of the large publishing houses keep on
sale pictures of authors. Twenty-five cents will
buy the portrait of almost any well-known au-
thor. These are usually wood-engravings and
excellent of their kind, well printed on good
paper, in size about ten by twelve inches. For
the same picture on India paper (which, of
course, is more durable and admits of a finer
impression) one dollar may be asked, and the
extra money will be well spent. A neatly firamed
portrait of the favorite author of a friend will
make a charming gift at but small cost.

Other pictures — photographs of famous pic-
tures, for instance — may be bought at a low
figure and framed. But pictures are like books :
there is an infinite variety to choose from, and
the price for either can be made high enough to
suit the most lavish giver.

Many make it a practice to subscribe to some
favorite magazine or paper, as a Christmas gift ;
and those who wish to confer an ever new
pleasure may well bear this in mind. With so
many capital publications, devoted to all imag-
inable tastes and pursuits, a choice will not be
difficult. Children, especially, enjoy receiving
their own papers and magazines, and a present
of this kind can, by a payment far from large,
be guaranteed to last one year — a surety which
can never be furnished with any toy, no matter
how expensive or durable.

Very young girls have a weakness for ribbons,
sashes, perfumery, bangles, and fancy pins, and
one can do worse than to moderately indulge
these innocent vanities.

Family servants should share the Christmas
joy ; and appropriate gifts, such as print or neat
woolen dresses, aprons, or a pocketbook with
perhaps a coin or bill in it, will never come amiss.

The mothers — the housekeepers — are the
easiest to cater for at this season of puzzled
shoppers. There are hundreds of dainty arti-
cles which the true home-maker will welcome.
Anything to beautify the home can hardly fail

to please; — silver, china, articles of cut-glass, or
choice napery for the table, a Japanese umbrella-
stand, a work-basket prettily fitted up and with
perhaps a silver or gold thimble in its own little
pocket, a linen scarf for the sideboard embroid-
ered or finished with " drawn work," a shop-
ping-bag, or embroidered scarfs of the pretty
China silks now so much used in decoration.
Other gifts might be vinaigrettes, silver glove-
buttoners, crocheted slippers, dainty aprons,
ivory brushes and combs, stationery, pocket-
books, card-cases or address-books. In pre-
senting any of the latter gifts it will show an
added thoughtfulness on the part of the giver
to have the name, or at least the initials, of the
recipient printed in gilt letters on the article, if
it be of leather. The added cost for this work
is very trifling. In the same way the value of a
box of stationery is much enhanced if the giver
has had the address of the recipient stamped
upon the upper right-hand comer of the paper.
A little rime and thoughtful work may produce
very delightful results. A lady of my acquaint-
ance was greatly pleased w-ith a certain beautiful
story which appeared in a well-known weekly
paper. It was not possible to obtain the story in
any other form, so her niece bought two copies
of the paper containing it, as it was printed on
both sides of the page. After cutting the story
out neatly in columns and pasting these into one
long strip, the whole piece was measured and
then carefully pasted in even double columns
upon sheets of heavy paper of a size which left
a broad margin. Then the margins were deco-
rated with delicate sprays of flowers painted in
sepia, and the name of the story in fancy letters
appeared on the thicker sheet of paper which
served as a cover. Round holes were made with
an instrument which is manufactured for that
purpose, and all the sheets, eleven in number,
were tied together with a ribbon. On the last
page a copy of a famous painting of the Ma-
donna, prominently mentioned in the story, was
mounted. The result was a really lovely httle
gift-book, sure to please her who received it.

EDITORIAL NOTE.

Our readers will be interested in comparing the two descriptions of rabbit-hunting published in this

number: " Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California" and a " Pueblo

Rabbit-hunt." Between the civilized "coursing" and the savage

" drive " the contrast is certainly striking.

THE LETTER-BOX.

Dear St. Nicholas :

Washington, D. C.

I HAVE the honor, this morning, to be,

One of a committee, that numbers but three,

To ask you a question concerning the fate

Of one who wrote for your pages of late.

'T is " Jack-in-the- Pulpit," whose loss we bewail.

The parson who told us full many a tale.

Instructive and funny his sermons to all.

Now tell your " Dear Reader," has Jack had a fall ?

H.as he misused the funds that others have earned?

Has he taught us a lesson that he has n't learned ?

Has he jilted the " School-raa'ani," that lamb of his fold.

Or doctrines advanced that some thought too bold ?

If you know where he is, you had best make it known,

Or suspicion will rest on old St. Nick alone.

When last Jack was seen with your authors renowned,

He seemed hale and hearty — in efery way sound.

Now do solve the mystery that hangs over Jack,

And if it is possible please have him back.

Vive le St. Nicholas, in whom I delight.

Your .-irdent admirer, Ethel P. Wright.

This cheery correspondent, and all Jack's other
friends, will see that he is again in his pulpit this
month. Like other preachers, he must have a
vacation now and then.

And, by the way, Jack-in-the-Pulpit requests
us to convey his thanks to Mollie U. F., Kag-
roin, J. H. Dam/l, May IVaring, Dannie C,
Mildred D. G. , and Pan/ Gage, for the good let-
ters they sent him in reply to Aimee Lequeu.x D.'s
question given in the May St. Nicholas. The
letters were cordially enjoyed, but were received
too late to be acknowledged with the other letters
on the banana question.

Perhaps some of the readers of the St. Nicholas may
be surprised to know that the King, Queen and Prin-
cesses go about the town just like other people — some-
times in a carriage, or on horseback, and often walk about
the streets unattended. But when there is any special
ceremony, there is a gilt coach, with grooms in blue
and silver liveries, and magnificent horses. But perhaps
everyone is not so much interested in royalty as I am, so
I will talk of something else. There are a great many
ruins here, the most beautiful being the Acropolis. But
I must not attempt to describe them. Besides the ruins,
there are very beautiful houses (really palaces) and mag-
nificent streets. The pavement on the principal streets
must be about thirty feet wide on each side, and the road
still wider. I must say, before I stop writing, that, of all
the stories I have yet read in the St. Nicholas, " Little
Lord Fauntleroy " and "Juan and Juanita" are ray
favorites. I have a little sister who enjoys the pictures
\ery much.

Now, good-bye, dear St. Nicholas, from your inter-
ested reader, Mabel M .

Athens, Greece.
Dear St. Nicholas : I do not remember to have
ever seen a letter from Athens in your " Letter-box," so
I thought that some of your readers might like to know
something about it. The people are very dark, and it is
rare to find any fair ones. I was only nine years old
when I left .\merica, and now I am fourteen. Greek is
very difficult, and a person not knowing the language
might often think the people quarreling, they talk so very
loud and use so many gestures. Greek girls do not, as
a rule, go to school, but they have private teachers and
governesses. Almost all the children speak several lan-
guages, and you often find a little child five or six years
old who can speak Greek, English, German, and French.

Bai.ti.more, Md.
Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken your magazine
for nearly a year, and are very fond of it. We visited
Europe about a year ago, and stayed there for six months.
We were led to take your magazine by hearing such
favorable comments passed upon it while we were in
Athens, Greece. We visited various places of interest,
among which were Geneva, Paris, London, Liverpool,
Rome, and numerous other cities. While in Geneva we
had quite a singular adventure. We were out driving,
one sultry afternoon, when our carriage was slopped,
and two fierce-looking men approached us, compelling
us to give up all our valuables. Of course we were
obliged to comply with their wishes, but very reluctantly.
Hoping to see this letter published in your next number,
Your admiring readers. May and Flora.

Lily Bay, Me.

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in your August number
an article about " Flower Ladies." I have often played
it, only rather more elaborately. Perhaps you would
like to know my way.

I used to take a bud or seed-vessel, leaving about two
inches of stalk. A daisy bud or a very green poppy-
seed is the best, using the bud or seed-vessel as a head,
and slipping the stalk through the petal of a morning-
glory flower. W^e did not always use morning-glory
flowers, but sometimes nasturtium blossoms with enough
of the little tube cut off to allow the stalk to pass through,
so making a girl doll with a full skirt.

THE LETTER-BOX.

A still gayer dress was one I made by taking the petals
of a poppy and fastening them aiound the waist of the
doll with grass or thread, and then putting on the leaves
of a different-colored popjiy arranged as a cape.

Hats were made by taking the blossom of a sweet-pea
and opening the lower petals wide enough to insert the
head, and running a pin or stiff piece of grass through
from the calyx, which is left on, into the head. A sim-
pler way of making hats is to take a blossom of the butter-
and-eggs (Antirrhinum) and open the mouth wide enough
to inclose the head. We used to call them " riding-hats."
Faces can be made by pressing the point of a pin into
the seed. I have never seen this done except with a
poppy-head.

Hoping that my St. Nicholas girl friends who are
interested in the " Flower Ladies " will improve and
enlarge on my pattern-book, I remain, sincerely yours,

Eleanor M. F .

Canton, O.

Dear St. Nicholas: Although I have taken you for
nearly five years, I have never written to you before, and
I hope this letter will have the honor of being printed in
the " Letter-box," for the re.ason that it is from a " Johns-
town flood sufferer," if for no other.

Our family was (with the e.xception of myself, I being
two miles from town visiting) in the thickest part of the
flood. They were on the roof of the house when it floated
from its foundation and directly opposite the school-
house, which was a block away from us before the flood.

They then climbed over houses, debris, etc., and got
in the school-house. This was about five o'clock in the
evening of that disastrous day. They did not get out until
six o'clock the next evening. During all that time they
did not have a bite to eat. I had my St. Nicholas all
bound, but the books went with our house in the flood. I
have not seen but one copy of St. Nicholas since May
31, 1889, and do not expect to see one of my own for a
great while.

Your interested «o«-reader, Alice L. S .

P. S. — Not one of my relatives was lost in the flood,
but many friends were. We are going back to Johns-
town in the fall.

Greenwood Lake, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas : I enjoy having my Papa read
to my sisters and my brothers and myself the stories in
St. Nicholas.

I will tell you a funny story. At our house, whenever
we are naughty, we have another name.

We don't belong to our family at all, but to the Hop-
scotch family. My big sister is Peggerty, the next one
Betsy, or Elizabeth Jane, and my big brother is Jede-
diah, and my little brothers Obediah and .4bimeleck, and
my sister, that 's only a little older than L whose letter
you printed in your September St. NiCHOL.is, is Malinda,
and Papa and Mamma, if they were ever naughty, would
be .-Khasuerius and Semarimus, and my name is ^lelvina.

If we are naughty, my Papa says," Peggerty, Elizabeth
Jane, Jedediah, Malind.a, Melvina, Obediah, and .^bime-
leck, go right to your rooms and stay there until I send
for you ! "

I tell you we do not, any of us, like to be called a
member of the Hopscotch f.rniily !

Nora McD , seven years old.

The last time I wrote to you, I was in Virginia. I in-
tended to write and tell you about New Orleans, when
I lived there. The trip down South was a very pleasant
one to us. We went down in the latter part of October,
just when the cotton is being picked. It is very interest-
ing to see the negroes picking ; they hold a large basket
on their heads, with one hand, and with the other they
pick the cotton. When one hand is quite full they reach
up and put the contents in the basket. The prettiest
sight that I saw in my three-days' journey south, was
the Florida moss which hangs from the trees ; this moss
is of a dull, dusty gray ; when picked it will sometimes
turn black.

I have stood on the battle-ground at New Orleans,
and have also been on top of Jackson Monument. This
monument is built of white stone, and is not complete;
some of the stones on top are loose and liable to fall
at any moment. When in the South I used to amuse
myself by watching the little lizards running up and
down the trees. They are very peculiar ; when running
up the bark of a tree, they turn dark, but as soon as
they touch the green leaves they are green.

The prettiest cemetery that I ever saw is the Chal-
mette National Cemetery; in June (the month of roses)
it is a bower of flowers. Flowers of every kind and
description grow in profusion. Among the flowers are
banana-palms and orange trees ; the latter, when in
bloom, scent the whole cemetery.

Just before you get to the cemetery is an old, old
powder-house, that was built before the war ; it is so
old that it is nearly tumbling over.

Attached to Jackson barracks is a large magnolia
grove, where the magnolias blossom and fade. They
perfume the whole barracks.

I have taken you for three years and could not do
without you. Every month, when it draws near the
time for your arrival, the mail is carefully watched.

I was born in the West, but I love the South. This
is the first time I have been North. I remain, your
devoted reader and admirer, M. T. S.

New York City.

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to tell you about a
" Martha Washington Fancy Dress Party " which I
attended on the Centennial Day.

It was given by a friend of mine, and I wore a gown
my great-grandmother wore on the day of Washington's
Inauguration. It was made of a dark red, of an ordinary
material, and a part of it was lined with bed-ticking.
The boys took dift'erent characters in American history,
as the girls did, and looked very old-fashioned in their
W'hile wigs, smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and military coats.

We danced the minuet and other old dances, and the
ice-cream was served up in two different forms, — one
the head of Martha, and the other of George Washington.

I enjoy your magazine so very much, and can hardly
wait for it to come every month. Your loving friend
and admirer, Aida St. Clair D .

Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island, N. Y.
Dear St. Nicholas: I promised to write to you
some time ago, but have never done so. I am an army
girl, and am constantly moving about. I love to travel.

We acknowledge, with thanks, the receipt of pleasant
letters from the young friends whose names follow :
Lilian M., E. P., Eleanor M., Alice F. Mitchell, Joseph-
ine Sherwood, S. Howard .Armstrong, M. C. S., Hen-
riette de R., Juha Babcock, Carrie and Fannie Bennet,
Hazel M. Muncey, Kitlie K. Nyce, Reba I. and Fannie,
James H., Maria D. Malone, Millie K. and Rose L.,
E. Janney, Elizabeth D., Kate Guthrie, Lisa D. Blood-
good, Margaret S., Cora M. S., Ortie C. Dake, Martha
Frederick, Ethel P. Wright, Kate Krutz, Elsie R.,Cliarle5
T. IL," Lizzie," Martha T. Mann, Sara M. Scribner,
Lilian, Mabel, Maude, and Cecile, Violet C, Ruth Owen
Sturges.

THE AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION.— 1888-89.

To St. Nichol.as, the Agassiz Association (which was
begun in this magazine) owes a new debt of gratitude.
Within two months after our annual report appeared in
St. Nicholas last November, responsive letters were
received from more than three hundred persons, and
more than one hundred new branch societies, or Chap-
ters, were organized. I wish the number might be
doubled now !

Among the most interesting of our new Chapters are
two which have taken root — where do you think? — in
Russia ! One of them is at Shargovod, in Podolsk, the
other at Savinstzy, in Poltava, and if you will take the
trouble to glance at your atlas you will see that these are
not border towns, but far interior.

Two societies have been established in England
(Burton and Wolverhampton), and one in Nova Scotia.

The readers of St. Nichol.-vs are probably aware that
we have divided all the branches of the Association into
ten groups, called "centuries," for convenience in report-
ing. Reports are expected from the Chapters of the first
century in January of each year; from the second century
in February, and so on, omitting the months of August
and September. Perhaps I can give no better impres-
sion of the progress of our work than by taking a short
glance at the letters which came in for the month July.
They are certainly very encouraging and gratifying.

Iowa Chapters are always "up to the mark." Here is Clarks-
vilie, 612, started only last March, that has already more than
doubled its membership, has meetings every Saturday, holds written
examinations once a month in botany, and adds to the usual pro-
gramme of its meetings, music, readings, and recitations. Miss
Bertha Penrose is the president, and Miss Grace Cameron the
secretary.

We turn the telescope to Louisiana. Within half a year the Henry
H. Straight Memorial Cliaptcr, New Orleans, C, No. 614, has in-
creased its membership from eight to twenty-four. Three hundred
per cent, is very cood! Three of these members are adult, and they
direct the work of the children, each one being encouraged to follow
his special inclination. Among other things talked over and studied
have been the crayfish, dragon-fly, various moths and butterflies,
and sea-fish. Common trees have also been discussed, and speci-
mens of the wood, blossom, flower, and fruit mounted on cardboard.
One meeting was given up entirely to the chicken. Its senses,
"clothes." bones (in a mounted skeleton), history and ori^n, breeds
and care, eggs and incubators, were some of the topics, vaned by two
humorous recitations. After all this the societj- actually partook of a
chicken-pie (which is certainly a practical illustration of "applied
science "' !) and the meeting adjourned after each person present had
while blindfolded drawn a picture of a chicken. Each one paid five
cents for the privilege of drawing, and the one who made the best
picture received the whole collection of drawings as a "chicken
album." So they had much fun and made some money. Miss
Eliza \. Cheyney, the earnest secretary, adds, " We are verj' glad in-
deed to belong to the Agassiz Association. Any one who doubts
the value of nature studies for children should watch, as I have for six
months, its awakening and quickening power."

Before passing to the next Chapter, we must add parenthetically
that Miss Cheyney has just organized a strong Chapter of more than
twenty members in Hampton Institute, General Armstrong's In-
dian School.

It is surprising how Chapters in the largest cities thrive equally
with those which are supposed to be in nature's more favored haunt,
the country. Chapter 630, A'ctv York City, Q, retains its full mem-
bership, and has been steadily adding to its collections.

And now we must take a very long step. — to Redlattds, Cali-
fornia. Prince Krapotkine, the distinguished Russian, calls frequent
attention to the Agassiz Association, in his speeches on "What
Geography Ought to Be " ; and shows that, by such a system of cor-
respondence and exchange as we have, we get more true knowledge
of distant lands than is possible in any other way. The truth of this
remark is illustrated by our regular reports every month.

In Redlands, Cal., then, C//(z/ii*r63Q began its existence at the sug-
gestion and under the guidance of Professor J. G. Scott, so long the
distinguished head of the Westfield, Mass., Normal School. Pro-
fessor Scott has recently died, but, wherever he has been, there will
remain inspiring memories of his earnest life. Says the secretary of
Chapter 639, " Professor Scott spent most of the winter with us, and

no one could be with him without becoming interested in natural his-
tory. We were constantly inspired." She adds, *' We were also fort-
unate in having another Massachusetts teacher with us last winter,
Professor T. E. N. Eaton, of Worcester. He conducted a boumy
class attended by some fifty members." The secretarj- of this Chap-
ter, at the end of her very interesting report, requests that it be not
published. We did not notice the request until the foregoing extract
was written, and while we do not publish the report, we are unwill-
ing to suppress the merited tributes to Professors Scott and Eaton.

One of our most active Chapters is 652, East Orange, N. J.. C,
under the efficient management of Mary D. Hussey, M. D. Just
entering on its third year with five new members, it reports ihe
interest greater than ever. It is so large that its work is done in
secrions, of which there are four. The geological section has finished
the first grade of Professor Guttenberg's Agassiz Association coime
and has begun a study of local minerals. 1 he botanical section has
been occupied with excursions and work upon the local flora, and
on Arbor Day interested the children of a public school in ttee-
planting. Fifty small trees, which had been raised from seedlings,
were presented to the children by the Chapter, and the children
planted them at their own homes with their own hands. The ento-
mological section reported on wasps, honey-bees, bumble-bees, and
silk-worms, presenting specimens of each. It was all original work.
During the remainder of the season the ornithological section look
charge of the meetings, and the following birds were studied from
specimens lent from a private collection: English sparrows, chip-
ping, song, and tree sparrows, snow-birds, hawks, owls, blackbirds,
orii'les, robins, wrens, and fly-catchers. Members of this Chapter
attended each meeting of the Agassiz Hill and Dale Club, and the
New Jersey State Assembly of the Agassiz Association. Agassiz's
birthday. May 28, was celebrated in a grove by reading sketches
of his life and scientific work, and Lowell's poem, followed by
refreshments and an exhibition of specimens. A most encouraging
record of a year's work.

Mr. H. B. Hastings reports that Ch3.pter C6^. of Chelsea, J^Iass.f
has a microscope fund of thirty-six dollars deposited in bank.

We must give an extract from the excellent report of Chapter 694,
of PlainfieQ, N. /., C. The three secretaries, Mary E. Tracy,
Margaret C Tracy, and Lilian Erskine, write, in part, as follow s :

" Our Chapter has eleven active and five honorary members. This
year botanical and geological sections have been formed in addition
to the one in entomology. We have held thirty-nine meetings besides
making ten excursions into the country, have sent a delegate to both
sessions of the New Jersey Assembly, and at least one member has
attended three meetings of the Hill and Dale Club.

" The botanical section of our chapter was organized in the fall and
consists of eight active members. We have held nine regular meet-
ings. During the first part of the year we studied ferns. In the
winter months we took up the lives of Linnarus. the Jussieu family,
and other well-known botanists of that time. Our work this spring
has been mostly in connection with the study of botany in school.
We have analyzed one hundred and five plants, fifty plants having
been mounted by each member."

We bring this hasty review of the " Seventh Century " to a close
by quoting part of an encouraging report from Mt. Pleasant, Iowa :
" The number of meetings held during the year is forty-five. We
have made quite a number of excursions and some very interesting
discoveries. One of our members, a gendeman from Colorado at-
tending the Universit>', brought us some beautiful specimens of gold
and silver ore."

A noticeable feature of the year's work has been the
rapid extension of the Association among the higher
institutions of learning. We have Chapters in connec-
tion with Johns Hopkins University, Columbia College,
the College of the City of New York, Rutgers, Wellesley,
Wittenburg, Akron, Olivet, and others, to say nothing of
numerous Chapters in normal schools.

At the same time, there are just as many Chapers of the
little ones as ever, and many " family Chapters," where
old and young study and work together. Once more, it
gives me great pleasure to invite all, of whatever age, to
unite with us, either by organizing local Chapters, or as
individual members. To any one who will send liis
address will be sent a circular, containing concise direc-
tions for joining the Association — there is no charge for
the enrollment of Chapters — and with the circular will
be sent a wood -en graving of Professor Agassiz.

Address., President Agassiz Association,

Pittsfield, Mass.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE OCTOBER NUMBER.

Illustrated Puzzle. Sir Christopher Wren. i. Spike.

2. .\corn. 3. Chair. 4. Sieve. 5. Otter. 6. Ships.
7. Mower. 8. Rower. 9. Negro.

.\cROSTic Riddle, i. Lark. 2. Army. 3. Riches.
4. Kite.

Numerical Enigma.

The sere leaf, flitting on the blast ;

The hips and haws in every hedge,
Bespe.ik October 's come ! At bast
We stand on Winter's crumbling edge.
A. Hollow Square. From i to 2, spatter; 3 to 4,
plea ; 5 to 6, alcoran ; 7 to S, tong ; 9 to 10, ternate ;
II to 12, eats ; 13 to 14, rangest.
Co.NCEALED HALF SQUARE. I. Diamond. 2. Imbibe.

3. Abate. 4. Mite. 5. Obe. 6. Ne. 7. D.
Connected Word-squares. Upper square :.i. Plan.

Line.

Anna.

Hare. 3. Aril.

Neat.
Nell.

Lower square : i. Than.
From I to 3, pintail.

Diamond, i. P. 2. Lea. 3. Worms. 4. Lovable.

5. Peragrate. 6. Ambreic. 7. Slain. 8. Etc. 9. E.
Prlmal Acrostic. Harvest Home. Cross-words :

1. Hydra. 2. Arion. 3. Remus. 4. Vesta. 5. Epeus.

6. Siren. 7. Titan. 8. Hylas. 9. Orion. 10. Medea.
II. Erato.

Buried Cities. Initials, Cleveland, i. Canion.

2. Lille. 3. Exeter. 4. Venice. 5. Ems. 6. Lima.

7. Amiens. 8. Nice. 9. Damascus.

Pi. ALICE CARY IN "AlUumu."

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips

The days, as through the sunset gate they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips

And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aluud,
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives.

And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the faded leaves.

And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

To OUR Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th
of each month, and should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East
Seventeenth St., New York City.

Answers to all the Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Louise
Ingham .\dams — Josephine Sherwood — Paul Reese — Maxieand Jackspar — Maude E. Palmer — Clara B. Orwig —
Pearl F. Stevens — J. B. Swann — Ida C. Thallon — Blanche and Fred — Mamma and Jamie- — "The \Vise
Five" — Mary L. Gerrish — Odie Oliphant.

Answers to Puzzles in the August Number were received, before .August 15th, from Marion Hughes, i —
"The Family," i — Gertrude and Cora McCabe, i — Pearl B., i — Ida A., i — Monica, 2 — Donald C. Barnes, i —
Mabel, Alice, and Savage, I — Emmons L. Peck, I — Bebbie and Matilda, 2 — A. E. H. Meyer, 2 — L. R.
M., I — Pauline M. H., Elsie E., and Catherine E. H., I — "May and '79," 9 — Annie Louise Clay, i — Clara
and Emma, i — Wm. N. Seaver, 5 — May and Lil, I — Lester and Gertrude, i — " Bungalowites," 2 — Mary E.
Colston, 3 — F. P. Whitmore, I — L. L. W. and Two Cousins, I — M. H. Perrin, I — Lisa D. Bloodgood, 2 —
H. M. C, 4 — Efiie K. Talboys, 6— A. P. C, S. W., E. M. M. and A. W. Ashhurst, 5 — Bella Myers, I — G.
H. Purdy, 2 — Margaret Alice, i — Ida and Mamma, 2 — May Martin, i — Margy P. and Emilie D., 4 — "Karl
the Great," 9 — John W. Frothingham, Jr. , 2 — " Kendrick Family," I — Percy V. Ranee, I — Skipper, 2 — Helen
D., 9 — "Bears," 2 — "Jo and I," 10 — Nellie L. Howes, 8 — joslyn Z. and Julian C. Smith, 6 — "A Family
Affair," 9— Kate Guthrie, 5 — Nora Maynard, 4 — Fanny H., 8 — Adrienne Offley Forrester, 5 — J. M. Wright,
1 — Pussy and Kitty, 2 — " Frizzlevvig," 4 — E. F. M., 3 — Charles Beaufort, i — B. F. R., 7 — Dora, i.

RHU.^inOID.

Across : i. The government of the Turkish empire.
2. Injuries. 3. Pastimes. 4. Fairies. 5. Pur|)ort.

Downward: i. In rope. 2. An exclamation. 3. A
fragment. 4. A snare. 5. An ant. 6. Withered. 7. In-
iquity. 8. In like manner. 9. In rope.

PI.

Sit eth emit
Hewn eht miche
Fo eht senasos horlac bnda si ginring tou.

Kysom stribgnesh slifl eht ari,

Rof eht glith swind weeryhever
Scneers Iful fo wolfrey bresem wings baton.

Three si stenswese hatt sopperess,

.Sa a retden riptang seslebs ;

Threes a fontsced wogi fo yabteu,

Sa hewn Leov si rethawing Duyt;

Theer rea delisome taht mese
Gawvine stap dan trufeu toni neo rafi ramed.

QUADRUPLE ACROSTIC.

All of the words described contain the same number
of letters. When these have been rightly guessed and

placed one below the other, in the order here given, the
primals will spell degrades ; the row next to them will
spell to superintend; the finals will spell the side oppo-
site to the weather side ; and tire row next to them will
spell charges.

Cross-words: i. Pertaining to the back. 2. Tomani-
fest. 3. To threaten. 4. A name anciently given to the
underworld. 5. A city in Italy, near Perugia. 6. Wanted.
7. Having the surface set with bristles. F. s. F.

WORD- SQUARE.

I. Gives medicine to. 2. The weight of twelve grains.
3. Substantial. 4. A feminine name. 5. A covered
vehicle for carrying a single person.

CHARA-DE.

Myyfrj-/ is the most of the whole ;

Indeed, than the u<holf it 's no less.
My second^ no matter how large,

Can never be all, vou 'II confess.
By adding a few to the whole

\ compound is made that is healthy;
Indeed, your food should be this.

Whether you 're poor or you 're wealthy.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

NUlMEKICAl ENIGMA.

I AM composed of forty-eigl.t letters, and form two

teen'^^i^es.^ My 1.-27-40-.7-4 is a story. My ,5-^1-
4S ,9 is an excuse. My -23-3S-29-9-20-44 >. ^^'^
national flower of a certain country M/ •4-25-5-46
-o is a kind of grain extensively cultivated. M> 35 4'
fs a preposition.^My 2-. 5-26-33-24-16 is a young cow
My 6-43-8-37 are small, globular masses of lead. My
3-47-22-31-34-10-28-12-39 IS enslaves. F. A. %v.

rLLUSTKATED ACBOSTIC.

^.^^^

to the lower right-hand corner, will spell the name of the
English poet from whose great work the following quo-
tations are taken : r., ,).»«»»» rm-th
I. " Then comes the father of the * * » lo'th.

Wrapt in black glooms."
2 „»»»«*»« in his palace of cerulean ice,^^
Here Winter holds his unrejoicing^court^."
1 " Along the woods, along the • » * • tens,

Sichs the sad genius of the coming storm.
^ The lively »'•*•** drinks thy purest rays,
Collected light, compact."
' He saw her charming, but he saw not half
The charms her downcast •• ^ ^ ^ ^-^^r^]'^-
' How dead the vegetable hes •

:. And see where surly Winter passes off, ^ ,,

Far to the north, and calls his* ^'asts.

DVCIE.

BROKEN WOBDS.

FacH of the six small pictures m.ay be described by a
word of seven letters. When these words are rightly
euessed and placed one below the other, in the order
here given, the third perpendicular row will spell the
surname of an American poet who was born in Novem-
ber, 1797.

KEDDLE.

From night until morning, from morning till night,

Mv dress v.iries not, 't is the purest of white ;

But how shall I add what must injure my song,—

That I 'm plump as a dumpling, not round but oblong.

Moreover, my station I take on the he.id

Of a creature large, strong, and a true quadruped;

But so gentle and quiet that children may dare

To mount on his back and sit fearlessly there.

I said that my form was not sylph-hke nor slender,

\o matter for that, since my feeUngs are lender;

But a caution I have for the young and the gay,

Shun my company ever, by break of the day.

Or the roses of health that now bloom on your face

Will ere long to the hue of the lily give place.

\nd now if there 's one who my name has not guessed,

I 'U venture 't is that one who loves me the best.

DIAGONAL PUZZLE.

Whfx the words represented by stars in the following
sentences have been rightly guessed and placed one below
the other, the diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner

EXAMPLE : Separate a rural worker, and make a vege-
nble and an insect. Answer, peas-ant.

I Separate a kind of pie or tart, and make to revolve
and above. 2. Separate a mercenary, and make wages and
a kind of fish. 3^ Separate a preservative against injury,
and m-d'e a preposition meaning " against," and to love
Tsepiite a nocturnal bird, and make darkness and a
tirtr'e^embling a falcon. 5- Separate a piece of timber
in a ship, and make navigates and onward. 6. Separate
an assistant to a churchwarden, and make margins and a
human being. 7- Separate an unexpected piece of good
fortune, and make idols and conclusion. ^- S^^P^^'"
write between, and make to bury and a w.iter 9-^ep
arate pertaining to the evemng, and make the evening
:tar a^d part o^f a fork.. .0. Separate to t-ea^en a,^
make a mischievous sprite and the close. II. Separate
Remarkable, and make a word that expresses denial and
proficient. 12. Separate to please, and make happy and

'^ When the above words are rightly guessed and placed
one below the other, the initials of the first row of words
™11 speU a day of rejoicing, and the initials of the second
row, Tplace many people visit in ^j;vember.^^^_^^^^^_

DOITBLE ACKOSTIC.

MY primals form a surname of Juno at Rome, and my

'"cKo'^sToKOsfo^equal length): i. .A large artery. in
the neck. 2. An Italian poet. 3. A web-footed marine
lird 4 Reported. 5- Capacity. 6. .\ Imtel over a
door 7. To fall against. 8. A kind of cloth, originally
brought from ChinI 9. A musical term meaning rather
slow.

PBO\'ERI? PUZZLE.

By taking one word from each of tlie follow-ing prov-
erbs' a quofation from AMc6et/>, suitable to the season,

mav be found : , , j a- .

1 Bitter pills may have blessed effects.

2 \ "ood key is necessary to enter mto Paradise.

I Some have more trouble in the digestion of meat
than in getting the meat itself.

4 Better wait on the cook than the doctor.

1 Praise the sea but keep on land. . -, „ j ,

6. Temperance, employment, a cheerful spirit, and a
good appetite are the great preservers of health.

7 Little and often fills the purse.

8 Sickness is felt, but health not at all.
9. Lookers-on see more than PJayers.

1 Hear both sides before you deeide^on^yo^u^r^verdict.

THE DE VINNE TRESS, NEW YORK.

(engraved for ST.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

AT THF AGE OF ELEVEN.
NICHOLAS, FROM A BUST BY J. DEVILE, MADE JUNE 1, 1822.)

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XVII.

DECEMBER, 1889.

No. 2.

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

By Anne Thackeray Ritchie.

There is a picture we used to look at as chil-
dren in the nursery at home, and which my own
children look at now, as it hangs upon the wall.
It is a water-color sketch, delicately penciled and
tinted, done in India some three-quarters of a
century ago by Chinnery, a well-known artist of
those days, who went to Calcutta and depicted
the people there with charming skill.

This picture represents a family group, — father,
mother, infant child, — a subject which has been
popular with painters ever since they first began
their craft. Long before Raphael's wondrous
art was known, this particular composition was
a favorite with artists and spectators, as I think it
will ever be, from generation to generation, while
mothers continue to clasp their little ones in
their arms. This special group of Thackerays is
almost the only glimpse we have of my father's
earliest childhood, but it gives a vivid passing
impression of his first home, which lasted for so
short a time. My long, lean, young grandfather
sits at such ease as people allowed themselves
in those classic days, propped in a stiff chair, in
tight white ducks and pumps, and with a kind,
grave face. He was Mr. Richmond Thackeray,
of the Bengal Civil Service, the then revenue

by The Century Co.
99

collector of the districts called " the twenty-four
Perganas." My grandmother, a beautiful young
woman of some two and twenty summers, stands,
draped in white, with a certain nymph-like aspect,
and beside her, perched upon half a dozen big
piled books, with his arms round his mother's neck,
is her Httle son, William Makepeace Thackeray,
a round-eyed boy of three years old, dressed in a
white muslin frock. He has curly, dark hair, an
innocent face, and a very sweet look and smile.
This look was almost the same indeed after a life-
time; neither long years of work and trouble, nor
pain, nor chill winters of anxiety ever dimmed
its clear simplicity, though his spectacles may
have sometimes come between his eyes and
those who did not know him very well.

He used to take his spectacles off when he
looked at this old water-color. " It is a pretty
drawing," he used to say ; but if his father, in
the picture, could have risen from the chair
he would have been about nine feet high, ac-
cording to the length of the legs there depicted.
My own father used to tell us he could just re-
member our grandfather, a very tall, thin man,
rising out of a bath. He could also remember
the crocodiles floating on the Ganges, and that
was almost all he ever described of India, though
in his later writings there are many allusions to

All rights resetted.

lOO

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

^ja t'^ ' v.* f

I I F THA, KERA^■S — MK. AND MRS. RICHMOND THALtCIiUAV, .\ND THEIR SON. LITTLE WILLIAM
.MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. (FROM A WATER-COLOR DRAWING BV GEORGE CHINNERY.)

East Indian life. In " The Tremendou.s Ad-
ventures of Major Gahagan," for instance, there
is enough meaning and intention in the names
and Hindustanee to show that he still retained
something of his early impressions.

A year after the sketch in question was painted.

the peaceful home in India was broken up for-
ever. The poor young collector of the twenty-
four Perganas died of a fever on board a ship,
where he had been carried from the shore for
fresher air ; this was about 1816, when my father
was five vears old.

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

Richmond Thackeray was himself httle over
thirty when he died. His young widow re-
mained in India ^\ath her mother, and married
a second time. Two years after her first hus-
band's death, her httle son came back to Eng-
land with a cousin of the same age, both return-
ing under the care of an Indian ci\-ilian, Mr.
James iMcXabb, who had promised to befriend
the chOdren on the journey home, and of whose
kindness we were often told in our childhood.

In the Roundabout Paper, on " Letts's Diary,"
my father mentions this verj' coming home. He
is speaking of this cousin, Sir Richmond Shake-
spear, who had been his httle playmate and
friend from the time of their birth. " In one of
the stories by the present writer," he says, "a
man is described tottering up the steps of the
Ghaut, ha\ing just parted with his child whom
he is dispatching to England from India. I
wTOte this, remembering in long, long distant
days such a Ghaut, or river-stair, at Calcutta ;
and a day when down those steps, to a boat
which was in waiting, came two children whose
mothers remained on the shore. One of these
ladies was never to see her boy more." (So he
says speaking of his aunt Mrs. Shakespear.)

My grandmother's was a happier fate, and
she returned to make a home for her son, and to
see him grow up and prosper and set his mark
upon his time.

II.

Before going any further the writer must
explain how it has come about that these few
papers and drawings are now for the first time
given to the public.

A little more than a year ago an American
gentleman came to see us at Southmead, where
we were then living, with a letter of introduc-
tion from a friend, and at his request I showed
him some letters and drawings, and the picture
of my father which I have been describing, and
some of my father's MSS., in all of which
he took the same warm and responsive interest
which has so often been shown by the American
as well as the Enghsh readers of " Vanity Fair "
and " Pendennis." Among the letters were two
or three very early epistles I had lately found :
written at the time of my father's first .coming
home to England, when all our present race of

elders, statesmen, poets, and philosophers were
also httle boys — and girls, shall we say? — play-
ing in their nurseries, spinning their hoops and
tops, peacefully awaiting the coming whirhgigs
of life. I had found the letters by chance one
day, in a packet which had been preserved by
my grandmother for half a centur\-. It had then
lain undisturbed for nearly twenty years after her
death, for so much time had passed since they
were first written by the httle boy in the quiet
Hampshire village to his mother in India.

I showed these childish letters, among other
things, to my American ^isitor, as I have said,
and, not long afterward, he wTOte to me con-
vening the request of the Editor of St. Nicho-
las, that I would let the magazine ha^e them
for the benefit of its young readers. I had
some hesitation at first in compl)ing with the
request, — for it is difficult to go against a hfe-
long habit, and I have always felt bound by
my father's objections. After a time I spoke to
my old friend Mr. George Smith, to whom my
father's copyrights belong. He willingly con-
sented and saw no real hindrance to the publi-
cation. And, as I looked again at the child's
writing, I felt that even the most fastidious could
not find any breach of confidence in printing the
simple hnes ; and, apart from aU other reasons,
it would be a pleasure to us and to our own chil-
dren to see them reproduced. I was sure, too,
that many American boys and girls and their
elders would be interested to see how the w riter
of "Vanity Fair" began his life-long work.

And so it happened that one summer's day
this year a little cart drew up at our garden
gate, a photographer and a camera were landed
on the doorstep, the camera was set up in a
comer of the garden, the sun came out from be-
hind a cloud, and in an hour or two the letters
were copied, the pictures and the bust were
reproduced, the picture went back to its nail,
and the letters to their drawers, and the cart
rumbled off w ith the negatives, of which the
proofs have now reached me from America.

III.

"When I first saw England," my father writes
in his lecture upon George III., "she was in
mourning for the young Princess Charlotte, the

I02

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

hope of the Empire. I came from India as a
child, and our ship touched at an island on the
way home, where my black servant took me a
long walk over rocks and hills until we reached
a garden where we saw a man walking. ' That
is he,' said the black man. ' that is Bonaparte ;
he eats three sheep every day and all the little
children he can lay hands on ! ' "

The Httle traveler must have been about six
years old when he landed in England. He was
sent to Fareham, in Hampshire, to the care of
his mother's aunt and grandmother, where she
had also lived as a child in the same quiet old
house. '-Tri-x's house" it was called in those
days, and still may be for all I know. It stood
in Fareham High street, with pretty, old-fash-
ioned airs and graces, and a high sloping roof
and narrow porch. The low front windows
looked across a flower garden into the village
roadway, the back windows opened into a pleas-
ant fruit garden sloping to the river. \\'hen I
myself the other day read in " Prasterita " Rus-
kin's exquisite description of the fruit-bearing
trees and bushes in his own childish " Garden of
Eden," straightway came to my mind a remem-
brance, a vision, of the gooseberry and currant
bushes at our Aunt Becher's, and of my little
curly-haired sister sitting on the ground and
filling her pinafore with fruit. We in turn,
children of a fourth generation, were brought
for a time to the old house. I can see it all as
plain before me as if I was eight years old once
more ; and I can remember hearing my grand-
mother say that, according to her own remem-
brance, nothing was changed from the time
when she too had returned thither from India
as a fatherless child to dwell in the quiet vil-
lage for a decade of years, until she went back
to India again at sixteen, dressed for the jour-
ney in a green cloth riding-habit — so she used
to tell us — to be married, and to be a mother,
and widoVed, and married again before another
decade had gone by. She never had any other
child than my father.

My sister and I, coming so long after, suc-
ceeded to all her old traditions: to the oak
stools standing in the window : to the httle
white bed in the upper room ; to the garden
leading to the river-bank. We made cowslip
balls in the meadows (how often we had heard

of them before we came to Fareham !). All our
grandmother's stories came to life for us. We
too had pattens to wear when it rained, we too
had "willow" plates of our own, and cherry-pie
on Sundays, and dry bread on week days; we
too were forbidden butter by our old great-
great-aunt as a pernicious luxury for children.
AVe were afraid of the old aunt, but very fond
of her, for she used to give us half-sovereigns,
and send us charming letters in her beautiful
handwriting. The little old house was as pleas-
ant within as without ; big blue china pots stood
in the corners of the sitting-rooms and of the
carved staircase with its low steps. In the low-
pitched front parlor hung the pictures (a Sir
Joshua Reynolds among them) of generations
not so far removed in my childish days as they
are at present, being now buried away by suc-
ceeding lives — "oil sous son pere on retrouve
encore son pere comme I'onde sous I'onde dans
une mer sans fond."

My father's great-grandmother, Mrs. Becher,
had sat to Sir Joshua in her youth — she died
in 1825 at eighty-nine years of age. Her name,
which the writer has inherited, was .\nne Hays-
ham before she married, and we have a copy
of the Sir Joshua portrait, representing a stately
dame in the flowing draperies of the period.
She lived in the old house at Fareham, after
her husband's death ; she was the mother of
many daughters and tempestuous sons. The
sterner rule of those Spartan times did not al-
ways quell the wild spirits of their rising gen-
erations. My grandmother has often told me
that Mrs. Becher never called her eldest daugh-
ter anything but " Miss Becher " ; her little
granddaughter was " Miss Nancy." She used
to come and go leaning on a beautiful tortoise-
shell-headed cane. I have played with the
cane, though its owner died long before I was
bom ; as for the great-aunt, I remember her
perfectly well, a little old lady in a flaxen front
with apple cheeks and a blue shawl, holding
out her welcoming arms to the third generation
of her brother John's descendants. When she
died, she left her brother's picture out of the
parlor to my grandmother, his only surviving
daughter, and now in turn it hangs with its red
coat upon our parlor wall. We are all very fond
of our great-grandfather, with his nice coat and

1889.]

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

lO-

lace ruffles. He is, in the portrait, a young man
of some twenty-five years of age, with an oddly
familiar face, impulsive, inquisitive, — so he
strikes me at least. His name was John
Harman Becher, and he too went out to India
and did good work there, and died )«oung, as
did so many others — in those adventurous
days. He was born in April, 1764, and died
about 1800.

Fareham itself, with its tall church spire and
its peal of Sunday bells across the cowslip mead-
ows, was a Miss-Austen-like village, peopled by
retired naval officers and spirited old ladies who
played whist every night of their lives and kept
up the traditions of England, not without some
asperity, as I well remember. Among other
things which my grandmother has often de-
scribed to us was the disastrous news of Nelson's
death, coming to them all, in that same little
parlor where, a few years after, little William
Makepeace Thackeray sat, laboriously writing
to his mother in India.

This letter, the earhest we have, is addressed to
" Mrs. R. Thackeray, care of Messrs. Palmer's,
per P. of Orange, Calcutta." It took six months
to reach its journey's end.

My Dear Ma.m.a. I hope you are quite well. I have
given my dear Grandmama a kiss my .\unt Ritchie is
very good to me I like Chiswick there are so many
good Boys to play with. St. James's Park is a very fine
place. St. Pauls Church too I like very much it is a
finer place than I expected. I hope Captain Smyth is
well give my love to him and tell him he must bring you
home to your affectionate little son

\Vn.LiAM Thackeray.

" WiUiam got so tired of his pen he could not
write longer with it," says his great-aunt in a
postscript to this Indian letter, " so he hopes you
will be able to read his pencil . . . He drew
me your house in Calcutta [she continues], not
omitting his monkey looking out of the window
and black Betty at the top dr)'ing the towels,
and he told us of the number you collected on
his birthday in that large room he pointed out
to us ! " There are also a few words from an
uncle written under the seal. " My dear Sister
Anne, I have seen my dear little nephew and
am dehghted with him."

Besides all these postscripts there is a faint
pencil sketch representing, as I imagine, Captain

Carmichael-Smyth on horseback. That gentle-
man was then just engaged to my grandmother,
and was ever after the kindest of friends and
parents to my father and to all of us.

We have an interesting book compiled by a
meinber of the family for private circulation, in
which there is an account of my father as a
child. " His habit of observation began very
early," says Mrs. Bayne in this volume. '• His
mother told me that once when only three or
four years old, and while sitting on her knee at
the evening hour, she observed him gazing up-
ward and lost in admiration. ' Ecco,' he ex-
claimed, pointing to the evening star, which
was shining like a diamond over the crescent
moon. This struck her the more as she had
herself noticed the same beautiful combination
on the night of his birth. ' Ecco ' was probably
decco, which is Hindustanee for ' look ! ' I
have often heard that when he first came to
London and was driving through the city he
called out, ' That is St. Paul's ! ' He had rec-
ognized it from a picture. He was with his
father's sister, Mrs. Ritchie, at the time, and
she was alarmed by noticing that his uncle's
hat, which he had put on in play, quite fitted
him. She took him to Sir Charles Clarke, the
great physician of the day, who examined him,
and said, ' Don't be afraid ; he has a large head,
but there is a great deal in it.' "

The second of these early letters is addressed
to Mrs. Carmichael-Smyth, Agra. It is written
in a painstaking copperplate hand, but it is so
evidently under superintendence that it is of
much less interest than the others. He was
then barely seven years old.

April 24, 1818.
Mv De.-vr Mama: I received your kind letter which

Mrs. was so good as to read to me as I am not

able to read your letters yet but hope I shall soon. I
have lieen twice with George and Richmond to dine with
Mr. Shakespear he was very kintl and gave me a great
many pretty books to read and promised I should go
every time George and Richmond went. I wrote a long
letter in February and sent it to .\unt Becher to send to
you. I have learnt Geography a long time, and have
begun latin and cyphering which I like very much, pray
give my love to Papa, I remain dear Mama yr dutiful son

\V. Thackeray.

Looking over some of my grandmother's
early letters I find more than one mention of

I04

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

n/i

' .1 ^ / ^ / /•

i '-'•y

v^idij Uim^d&f-ci/fi^''^''nM)

\&.ilf Vfii'^i

mui

•i

UMl'^j

-:iMdeiiGata^^^i.

FAC- SIMILE OF A PORTION OF AN EARLV LETTER. (SEE PRECEDING PAGE)

my father. "I have had a delightful letter
from my man," the mother writes from India,
and then quoting from her own home corre-
spondence she continues : " The day Charles
[Col. Carmichael-Smyth] arrived, he [the boy]
was in high spirits all day, but when he went
to bed he could restrain no longer and burst
into tears. The servant asked him why he
cried. He said, ' I can't help it, to see one who
has so lately seen m)- dear mother and to see
her picture and the dear purse she has made
for me ! ' "

IV.

My father never spoke with any pleasure
of his early school-days. As we drove to Rich-
mond with him sometimes, he used to show
us the comer of the lane at Chiswick which
led to the school where all the "good boys"
were learning their lessons. To this comer,
soon after he entered school as a very little
fellow, he ran away, and then was so fright-
ened by the sight of the Hammersmith High
Road that he ran back again, and no one was

,889] THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY. IO5

the wiser. Before he was sent to Chiswick, young Hves so miserable that I remember kneel-

I believe he stayed, for some months only, ing by my little bed of a night, and saying. Pray

at a school in Hampshire, where his cousins God I may dream of my mother."

also were pupils. " I can remember George The next letter was written from Fareham :

coming and flinging himself down upon my ^j^ dearest of all dear Mamas : I have much

bed the first night," he wrote long after to his pleasure in writing to you again from Fareham to tell how

cousin, Mrs. Irvine, sister of George and Rich- happy I am. I went to Roche Court to see Mr. and Mrs.

mond Shakespear. This was that school of Thresher. I saw a birds nest with young ones in it, in

, . , , , • ti „ T>„„„.^oK^,,f ■D^,^o.- a beautiful honevsuccle bush and a robbin's in another

which he speaks in the Roundabout Paper, t~, ■ . - ^r . a %u t n if .„

' , , J , 11 place. This has been Neptune day with me 1 call it so

" A school of which our deluded parents had ^^^^^^ j ^^ ;^^,^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^ ^^ ,i^^ Neptune. Your

heard a favorable report, but which was gov- „i^ aquaintances are very kind to me and give me a

emed by a horrible little tyrant who made our great many cakes and great many kisses but I do not let

'P f /(Hire 0^0^ ci^au)//^r)<t^ ry^r ^^cy>' ^^ /,^ ^U -^m J.

y 'y-/:^yn(/i*> u pr/<f. ^ykic^ C^y^oa Xa<e^,-^j A^^ ^^e^/* ^^ \

/'t^4j/o^ r<^i^ACy^J't>^^ i^l{!A<f-0-C^ O07r?/S.Xr^7'7''C ^i^CCy

J '' ).>!//. XJ,^./i yic/, /^fii

io6

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

/''

OCTUroOT^^OfyC^ nf-^M.jd'C'^O'^^ -01.0X7/. 4^

^y^^

t/)'^;

Charles Becher kiss me I only take those from the ladies —
I don't have many from Grandmama. Miss English gives
her very kind love to you and begs you will soon come
home. Pray give my kindest love to Pappa. Aunt Becher
bought me a Caliduscope it is a very nice one I have
spent a very pleasant day at Catesfield. Miss O'Bryen
gave me a very pretty jest book I should like you to have
such another pretty house as Mrs. O'Bryen's, there is such
a beautiful garden. I am grown a great boy I am three feet
eleven inches and a quarter high I have got a nice boat,
I learn some poems which you was very fond of such as
the Ode on Music &c. I shall go on Monday to Chiswick
to see my .\unt Turner and hear the boys speak. I in-

^•yW2^//

Z4.

)^ccm6-

tend to be one of those heroes in time, I am very glad I
am not to go to Mr. Arthur's. I have lost my cough
and am quite well, strong, saucy, and hearty; and can
eat Granmama's goosberry pyes famously after which I
drink yours & my Papas good health & a speedy return,
believe me my dear Mama your dutiful son

\V. Thackeray.

My father must have been a sensitive little
boy, quick to feel, not over strong, though well
grown. He was always very short-sighted, and
this in his school-days was a great trouble to

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

lO'j

him, for he could not join in the games with
any comfort or pleasure, nor even see the balls
which he was set to stop at cricket. In those
days schools were not what they are now ; they
were rough and ready places. He used to de-
scribe dreadful arrangements of zinc, vrith oily
streaks of soap floating on the black waters,
which always sickened him, and which were all
the materials that the little boys were allowed

a perfect recollection of me ; he could not speak,
but kissed me and looked at me again and again.
I could almost have said, ' Lord, now lettest
thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes
have seen thy salvation.' He is the living image
of his father, and God in heaven send he may
resemble him in all but his too short life. He
is tall, stout, and sturdy, his eyes are become
darker, but there is still the same dear expres-

>iy/vtu^ ^iw'-e (/iou^^ 6^-

'^d

FAC-SIMir.E

for their morning's ablutions. He suffered in
health as well as in spirits, and he was often
laid up. And it seems to be after one of these
passing illnesses that the letter reproduced in
fac-simile on pages 105 and 106 was written
from Fareham, where he must have been sent
to recover. But his troubles were almost at
an end, for his mother was even then on her
way home and he had no need to dream of her
dear presence any more.

This is her account of the meeting : " He was
not at Chatham when we arrived, but Mr.
Langslow brought him from Chiswick the next
morning, for Mrs. Turner would not part with
him till we came, that I might see him in full
bloom : and truly he is so. dear soul. He had

\_KEKAV !N HIS LO\H"OD.

sion. He remembers you all perfectly. Aunt
Maria, I think, is his favorite still. The moment
he saw the gold knife, he said, ' Oh, my grand-
mamma gave me this, and I poked Dash ^\'ith
it.' His dra>ving is wonderful."

After drawing Captain Smyth, the house in
Calcutta, and Betty hanging out the clothes, as
he did on his first arrival, the little boy went on
to draw everything else that struck his fancy.
He liked to draw, not so much the things he
saw as the things he thought about: knights
with heraldic shields, soldiers, brigands, drag-
ons, and demons : his school-books were all oma-

io8

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

[Dec.

FAC-SIMII.E OF A DRAWING MADE UY THACKEHAV IN HIS BOVHOOD.

mented with funny fanciful designs, his papers
were covered with them. When he was still
quite a little fellow, he used to manufacture small
postilions out of wafers, with the top-boots in
ink and red coats neatly stuck on. As he got
older, he took to a flourishing style, with split
pens for his instruments, sketching gentlemen
with magnificent wreaths of hair and flaps to
their coats, ladies with wonderful eyes and lips,
in style all curly and flourishing ; but these e.x-
periments were in later years, after his mother's
return from India.

I gladly acceded to the request of the Editor
of St. Nicholas, who asked me to forward
with the rest of the papers two or three speci-
mens of my father's childish drawings. They
are taken at hazard from those in our posses-
sion. Here* is one of the drawings which by
the writing underneath should belong to these
very early days when the young designer was
but nine or ten years old. We must not fail
to observe that the brave captain, kneeling for
mercy, is poking out his companion's eye with
his sword, while the gallant warrior in a cocked
hat, standing up, is delivering two heavy purses
to the constable (or highwayman ? ) with his club.

Here are one or two more quotations from
the mother's letters which run on about so
many unknown things and people, and then
here and there comes a little phrase or sen-
tence belonging to one's own present world and
dearest interests :

" August, 1821.

" My Billy-Man is quite well. I must tres-
pass and give him a day or two of holidays.
You would laugh to hear what a grammarian
he is. We were talking about odd characters,
some one was mentioned, I forget who. Billy
said, ' Undoubtedly he is a Noun — Substantive.'
' Why, my dear ? ' ' Because he stands by him-
self'"

Here is the history of a relapse :

" My poor Billy-Boy was getting better of his
cough, and he was going into school when
Henry unfortunately went to see him and gave
him half-a-crown, with which iny little Gentle-
man must buy a lump of cheese, which of all
things you know was the very worst, and brought
back the enemy."

Then comes an account by the Mamma of
the school of which the little scholar's impres-
sions were so different.

* See page 107.

i88g.]

THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY.

109

^'f^-i

■'■mtmimgi^

^-'^-'A-asi^f'-

, J(|p'.3r»i:^:

" I don't think there could be a better school
for young boys. My William is now 6th in the
school, though out of the 26 there are only four
that are not older than himself He promises
to fag hard till Midsummer that he may obtain
a medal, and after that I think of placing him
at the Charter House. . . .

" He tells me he has seen the Prince Regent's
Yacht in Southampton Water and the bed in
which his Royal Highness breathes his /vva/
snore."

Again —

" Billy-Man says, ' give my love to them all,
/ w!s/i they would come over.' Here is the

FAC-SIMILES OF DRAWINGS BV THACKERAY WHEN
A BOY. BENEATH THE UPPER SCENE THE
YOUNG ARTIST WROTE IN PENCIL! "HOW
SHOULD VOU LIKE TO BE SERVED SO ? "

little figure he has done in a few
minutes of Captain Bobadil ; it was
a thick pencil and he could not
make a good outline. He painted
a little theater for young Forrest, or
rather a scene with sides entirely
from his own imagination, which
Mrs. Forrest says was capital.

" Our time is limited to the 19th,
when I must be at Chiswick to hear
my little hero hold forth — I don't know how I
shall go through with it. They have not selected
an interesting speech — Hannibal's address to
his soldiers — which you must all read and
fancy me and Billy-Boy — but you can't fancy
such a great fellow."

('an the picture on page 1 08 be Captain Bob-
adil, or one of the scenes for the theater ? On
this page is a thrilling incident from the Spanish
Inquisition carefully painted and finished up by
the httle artist.

VI.

The letter which follows is the last of the
early letters, and is dated in 1822, when its

no THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY. [Dec.

c/ccf^^.i-^/^^c^a /a^n: ^0/(97

y/ . ^ ^ y -^ •

//^^ ^^ a/,^cU ^/^,

— :r ; ^ ^ ''''^'-^j'/f^^^ir/^ a^^ ,x^ c^.

L...

writer was eleven years old. His stepfather i"k and all I hope you will wrile to me soon at least

had been appointed Governor of Addiscombe, "f'"^^'' '^^" y°" ^'^ 1^^' q"^'"='' '^ '^" """^ =*" ^^out

J,. ,.- „ „. 11, Addiscombe & the Gentlemen Cadets and tell me if Papa

and his own hte at Orey-tnars had bet'un. , ^ , ., .i . -n £. i.- nr i, i ij

-' ° has got a /Mi" that will fit hun. My hands are so cold

tliat I can hardly write. I have made a vow not spend

Charter House, Jan. 20, 1822. that five shilling piece you gave me till I get into the

My dear Mother : 8th form which I mean to ask for tomorrow. The holi-

I am now going to begin bothering you days begin on the 23rd of .^pril but it wants 13 weeks

that letter I wrote to Butler was only a bit of a preface I to them it will be your time to ask me out in three

dare say you are surprised to see me use a whole sheet weeks two more Saturdays must pafs and then it will be

of paper but I have laid in a stock for the quarter pens the time for me to go out. Is Butler gone to .Addis-

1889.] THE BOYHOOD OF THACKERAY. I i i

J? / f * •' ■ '

// ^ ' ' / ■' ' ' "

/ ^ ■ 0 ■ ■ ' '

■'f^Z.'tfT-'C

■<'>'/- J-tc/L' /■ «' .v-^V. A>; -v./.'^''-

combe with you ? We have got a new master hii name travel Oil the stage-COach when the long-ex-
is Dickin — Dickins or Dickinson. Give my love to pgcted holidays Came round at last.*

Papa and I remain Yours truly ti r i- • c ^\. ^ 1 c o

,,, ,, T, 1 he frontispiece ot the present number of St.

W. M. Thackeray. ' '

,,, .. . . , Nicholas is engraved from the photograph of

Write again as quick .as you can. " 101

a bust of little William Makepeace Thackeray

Eventually, Major and Mrs. Carmichael- which was made in the same year as that to

Smyth settled at Fairoaks, near Ottery St. which this last letter belongs. A foreigner called

Mary, whither the little schoolboy used to Devile, or Delile, came over with an ingenious

* One of the very earliest of my memories is that of an old servant, a toothless " old John," in knee-breeches,
who had followed the family fortunes from Devonshire to Coram street, where my father and mother lived in
London. His picture is to be seen in Pendennis, with a coal-scuttle.

W. M. T1!ACKLRA\"

(LV J Lk.Mi.-.Slu.\

>^v^tl^ COMPANY.)

process for taking people's portraits by casts
which he afterwards worked up and put to-
gether, and, thanks to his skill, we possess this
really admirable portrait of the boy as he was
on the ist of June, 1822, which is the date upon
the pedestal. The letter, it will be seen, is dated
in January of 1822.

I am glad to be able to add to these glimpses
and mementos of his early life a picture that
represents my father as I remember him best.
The frontispiece shows him as a boy ; the en-

graving on this page is from the last photograph
ever taken of him. All a lifetime lies between
the two portraits, all its sorrows and successes,
its work and its endurance. No words of mine
are needed to point out the story. As a boy, as
a man, my father held to the truth as he felt it
to be, to the duties and courageous things of
life. He bore much trouble with a brave, cheer-
ful heart, and he made all who belonged to him
happy by his generous trust in them, and his
unchangincf tenderness and affection.

VERSES.

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson.

A CHRISTMAS LETTER.

All the folks that live out here,
Wish you Merry Christmas, dear!
Funny, furry little hares.
After dark, when no one cares,
Come to dance upon the snow.
Glad it 's Christmas time, you know.

And the litde cliickadees, —
You would think their feet would freeze,-
They sit chirping, gay enough,
With their feathers in a fluff,
" Merry Christmas, when it comes,
Gives us aU a lot of crumbs ! "

And your dear old friend, the crow.
He and all his brothers go
Teetering across the snow,
Two-and- twenty in a row :
Every crow with one keen eye
For the changes in the sky.
And another for the ground
And whatever 's to be found.
Oh ! the crows look sly and queer
Just about this time of year 1
If they 'd only tell in sleep
All the secrets that they keep !
Don't you s'pose they know it 's right
To hang a stocking up at night ?
Don't you s'pose they know this minute
Everj'thing there will be in it ?

People used to half-believe

Cows could talk on Christmas eve.

Standing parient in the stall,

When the night began to fall ;

That they talked of that strange sight

In a stable Christmas night.

Don't you wonder if they do ?

Don't you wish that it was true ?

Stars at Christmas, don't you think.

Have a sort of knowing wink ?

And the flowers underground

Asleep when Christmas comes around, —

Don't you think it really seems

As if they must have Christmas dreams ?

Happy dreams be yours, my dear,
Christmas night, and all the year !

THE LAST CRICKET.

Trill, trill, trill.

Sweet and shrill.
From the dark side of a stone ;

Summer is flown away,

Clover is made into hay,
Autumn nights are chill ;

Trill away, little Cricket !
Out in the dark alone.

Trill, trill, trill,

The tree-tops are still,

Never a katydid about
And the firefly's torches are burned out.

Trill away, little Cricket !
The stars listen, no doubt.

Trill! trill! trill!

A summer tune
Makes not November June.

Everything has an end.

And so has thy song, little friend I
Tweak ! the frost nips — thou art still !

\oJ.. XVII.— 14.

nn-^^

THE WHITE AND THE RED

by
ALICE MAUDE EWELL

[Dame Gillian Fenn tells the tale to her chil-
dren, and others of her household, — all seated
round a blazing fire, — on Christmas eve, of the
Year of Grace 1652, in olden-time Virginia] :

Well, well ! all 's ready for the morrow, thank
patience ! with making and baking, roasting
and toasting, fairly done. And what will ye be
having to-night, pray ? That same old tale of
Indian Simon that I did tell you once afore ?
Welladay ! if it pleased you so rarely at first
time o' hearing, I '11 e'en tell 't again. 'T is no
such smooth-tripping a merry-go-round as some
folk like best this season, nor hath it merry end-
ing, neither — for all some lives were saved by
the turn o't ; but 't is only fair, I 'm thinking,
that you young ones should be made acquaint
with what your forebears did suffer and adventure
a-planting tliis New World. Ye may set your-
selves up to do great things, mayhap, i' the days
to come — but if e'er ye 've a mind to go brag-
ging, wh)', look ye first behind. 'T will do you
no harm, I warrant. Folk should set proper
store by homes so hard-won from the wilder-
ness, nor grudge honest tilling o' the ground
that was so well watered with fathers' blood.
Aye, aye ; 't is peace and good wiU, this Christ-
mas eve, an' good cheer a plenty, to boot ; but
as for the winning o't all, that was no such peace-
ful a matter, as ye may reckon. Howsoever,
bless God ! we need fear no Indian screechery
breaking in, like on that time, to spoil talk to-

night. There 's naught worse than the wind
outside, or maybe a wolf or two, now and again.
Stir ye the coals and pile on the logs, — Dickon,
Jacky. We '11 tell it all once more — and he
shall have most cakes an' beer at the end, with
nuts to crack no less, that proveth the keenest
listener.

— Now, 't was after a right strange manner of
happening that the lad Simon Peter did first
come to dwell amongst us; which same (for
that ye may the better understand mine own
proper tale i' the telling) I will now in brief
relate the ins and outs of Truly, his descent
was from none too good nor too happy a stock,
as nobody might deny. 'T was of that heady
and high-stomached tribe called Pianketank,
who rose up to their own undoing 'gainst the
old cruel king, Powhatan, not long afore the
coming of the English into Virginia. So that
tribe did he swiftly and most furiously fall upon
and slay to the last man (as he then purposed
and believed), with all the rest of his several
under-tribes helping him thereto in vengeance.
And when they were all so bloodily done to
death, he did cause to be cut off and stringed on
a string, all a-row, the ears of men, women, and
children — and there were they hanged up be-
t\vixt two trees in front of his palace door. A
brave sweet sight, i' faith, and a most pleasant for
his royal eyes to gaze on, and also a signal warn-
ing 'gainst such like rebeUious oftense. There
were they seen by no less than Captain John
Smith himself, with others of his company, — to

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

115

their great mislike and amazement, — as was
aftertime ^mt down by him in his " True Rela-
tion " of Virginia matters, and may to this day
be read. Howsoever, it happened that, despite
this murtherous and savage disposal, there
remained yet a very little remnant of the tribe
Pianketank, being scarce one score souls in all,
who got them away, at the first alarm, in swift
flight from the slayers and hid in the dark wil-
derness till after King Powhatan, in passage of
years, died and was buried. E'en then, 't was
said, they durst hardly venture out save in a
very secret way. But seeing that none molested
them, and also that their persecutors' minds had
changed with vastly changing times all o'er the
land, they came at last boldly forth as any, and
settled them upon the woody waste that even
to this day lieth uncleared, northward of the
road to James City. So there they builded their
wigwams on a hillock not far from the way, and
no man hindered or any-nise denied them need-
ful range for hunting, fishing, and such Uke get-
ting of where\\athal to Hve. As for the white
men thereabout, they were the rather overkind,
I do reckon, as, to such marked unfortunates,
one naturally disposeth. Yet, as folk soon 'gan
to say, 't was like enough that fault o' the former
quarrel with Prince Powhatan was not all on
one side. "What 's bred i' the bone will- out i'
the flesh," as the old saw runneth, and so it came
to pass full soon with these poor down-trod and
distrest Pianketanks. 'T was not alone an eU
they 'd be content with, being given an inch, but
a thousand miles, more like. In greedy tricks,
malice, pride, laziness, and fierce-mouthed brags,
they, waxing ever more insolent, grew daily worse
and worse — and as for Jack o' the Feather, he
was of them all the most past Christian bearing.
Now his sure-enough Indian name was not
Jack, but Nemattanow ; only the English called
him Jack o' the Feather, because of his saucy
tongue, an' because of his being always so finely
rigged up with feathers in the wild fashion of
his sort. For tho' 't was naught uncommon to
see those foolish heathen creatures so bedeckt
and set off with plumage of birds by them
caught or killed, yet never another one was seen
to match this Jack in such outlandish bravery
and ornamentation. One day 't would be an
eagle's plume, mayhap, the next a turkey-wing

— or goodness knoweth what new thing or
t' other! There be wiser folk than he in this
world that think fine feathers make fine birds,
but this same Jack was an ill bird, I do reckon,
for all his royal blood. He was next of kin to
the chieftain, or king, as they called him (after
their high and mightj' way), who was killed in
the former massacre, that time — so being by
blood, as in natural humor, the leader and ruler
o' his crew, in mischief as in all else. A king
well-nigh without subjects, good sooth ! and in
right make-a-shift case ; yet the lacking in pomp
was out-doubled in pride, I trow, and so his fall
came round.

Now, it did so chance one day in a busy time
of harvest, that Master Thomas Godkyn, his
nighest neighbor, would have Jack o' the
Feather go an errand for him to Jamestown
for one bushel of com in payment thereof. It
was easy earning of good bread, but my royal
red gentleman having no mind for such honest
humble ser^ce, not he, and giving a short and
saucy back-answer. No, with some brag of his
kingly blood, moreover, — why, then, Master
Godkyn, mightily put about and vext by the
denial, did burst out scornfully a-laughing at
that, sa}'ing, " I pray your High Majesty's
pardon. I' faith, I did forget your High Majes-
tical state," quoth he, " O fine king o' beggars
in a palace o' poles ! " Whereupon he laughed
again, " Ho, ho ! " a-tuming on his heel ; but
as for Jack o' the Feather, he looked a most
black an' devilish look, as who would fain
strike that other dead ^Wth 's tomahawk for very
rage, and (crjdng out fiercely in his Indian
speech) said, " Paleface fool ! Thou laughest
loud to-day, but I will laugh louder to-morrow."

So then Master Godkyn, making that out
shrewdly to be threat of evil, did bethink him
that he would look keenly to any such risk.
But maUce hath many ways to creep as well as
run, — an' who may guard him 'gainst the cruel
cunning of that murtherous red people ? 'T was
the very next mom, just afore day-breaking, that
he, being waked up from sleep by a most fear-
some bellowing and groaning, as of some great
brute-beast in death pain, went out and found —
lo and behold ! — his brave bull, that had cost
a pretty price in England, besides the fetching
of it hither, there was it, a-lying i' the meadow,

ii6

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

ham-Stringed, and in such a case as might not
be anywise holpen save with a bullet through
the heart for pity's sake.

Now, small need was there for guessing (as
everybody said) whose wicked deviltry this
might be. And some of the neighboring white
people would be for shooting Jack o' the Feather
with the same gun wherewith they had dis-
patched the bull. " Kill him ! kill him ! " cried
these hot-blooded ones, and had well-nigh set
off furiously so to do, without judge or trial,
only my father — Master Barrow — said nay to
that. "We will not so bring blood-guiltiness
on us, neighbors," saith he, " for all that such
mischief may no longer lodge amongst us. We
will but give him fair warning to quit these parts
straightway, on pain o' death. Then, if he do
prove contrary and resist, his blood be on his
head." So, that being agreed on, the warning
was given accordingly ; and as for that villain,
though he did bitterly deny the bloody fact, he
durst not tarry long to prove him innocent, in
sooth, for by next daybreak he was clean gone,
with all his fellows and belongings (as was first
supposed), nobody knew which way or whither.

'T was on the even of that same day that my
father, a-passing nigh those wigwams, so left
standing lonesome and empty, did hear a very
little wailing voice right piteously crying. So
he stopped and listened, and being distrest
thereby (for the sound of it, as I have heard
him say a-many a time, would touch heart of
stone) he went to find what that might be.
And there, lo ! what doth he come across, weep-
ing 'mongst the cold ashes all frighted and alone,
but Jack o' the Feather's own child, — and a
mere baby lad, at that, — by those most wicked
creatures left behind to perish, with neither fire
nor victual.

Now, whether he had hid himself away (after
the roguish trickery of such very little ones) and
so could not be found at time of their hasty set-
ting oi^", or whether he was so left a-purpose in
cold blood from the notion of their flight being by
him hampered. Heaven knoweth, not I ! Yet
there was he, to a certainty, and piteously fam-
ished withal ; and so my father, being a feeling-
hearted man, did fetch him home that night to
our house. For mine own self, I was but a lit-
tle babe in arms that time, but afterward heard

tell enough concerning the surprise and wonder-
ment of it — and the vexedness of my poor
mother at this turn. Truly she was ever set
'gainst this outside stranger, e'en from the first,
but as for Dickon and Francis, they were right
well joyed with a new playfellow. Mayhap about
three year old did he seem, and nigh Francis in
tallness, though not so bigly set. Words had
he, a plenty, when that his tears were dried an'
he fairly warmed and fed, but all in the barbar-
ous Indian tongue, such as not even my father
might make head or tail of, save only here and
there. And being asked his name, as was made
shift to do, he cried out loud and proudly, a-
clapping his two hands together, " Totapota-
moi ! Totapotamoi ! Totapotamoi ! " Whereat
our lads laughed, for the right strange, curious
sound thereof. And my mother, she cried,
" Lord ha' mercy upon the wild heathen crea-
ture! " But my father said, right soberly, " 'T is
good enow for a savage, an' hath a pretty ring
i' the sound on 't — an' that 's truth. Notwith-
standing," saith he on, " 't is no proper title for
any decent tame creature in Christian house-
hold." So he named him Simon Peter from
that hour — by which name he was soon after
brought to christening ; and that did we ever
call him.

And thus it did hap that he first came to
dwell amongst us.

Now, as I have afore said, my mother was
ever misliking of it from the very first thereof.
Sore vext was she, poor soul, because that my
father would have the likes o' such brought up
'mongst his own; for she was high-notioned in
the matter of our company-keeping, as is but
natural to the gentle-bom; — yet as to my father,
he was but a yeoman's son i' the old country
and had been a rough fighter 'gainst ill fortune
most o' his days, so set small store by such com-
parisons i' quality. And when my mother would
be sending Simon to the kitchen in a servant's
place (for we had a fair sizable house, buOded
all of stone, with kitchen and offices thereto,
separate and orderly as any in old land or new),
why, then the master said stoutly nay to that
measure. " What, wife," quoth he, a-smiling so
plaguingly wthal, " shall we so serve this prince ?
Is he not of the king's blood, forsooth ? an' to
be so packed off in kitchen 'mongst common

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

serving men an' maids ! Fie, fie ! " saith he ;
whereat the mistress crieth, " A pretty prince,
indeed ! " and tossed her head, a-looking but
scornfully upon the poor Indian finery (with
beads, gewgaws, an' such like, all tarnished an'
meanly make-a-shift as 't was) of the dark little
lad. Then saith she, " What ! wilt thou even
such a swarth-skin with thine own children, at
bed an' board ? As well buy them a blacka-
moor brother from the Dutch ship, forsooth !
I 'm thinking 't would be all of a piece." Yet
my father spake in a right grave way, saying,
" Nay, wife, if thou canst not see the difference
betwixt a blackamoor an' such as this one, I pity
thy poor sight. I see God's hand i' this matter,"
quoth he, "and, if the child is let alone by his
own people to bide peaceably amongst us, it shall
be share an' share alike. Nay, nay ; my young
ones shall have no slaves to their ordering, red-
skinned or black, to make them saucy an' master-
ful. I Hke the look of this Simon Peter right
well, for all the father of him being Jack o' the
Feather. He shall have fair chance, by St.
George ! — for I 've a mind to play a game with
nature in this business. Aye, we will see where
Dame Nature endeth and breeding doth begin —
and if his father cometh to claim him some day
(for all 't is not likely he '11 be taking any such
pains), why, we '11 e'en give the boy his choice,
to go or stay, an' see how then."

"Aye, aye!" saith my mother, "we will
see." Still, notwithstanding, she made no more
ado that time, save to make sure of Simon Peter
being shrewdly stript of his outlandish rags and
cleaner-washen than e'er he 'd been in his life
before, I reckon, for all he did most irefully
resist the same with howUng. And after that
he was drest in a fair change of Francis's
clothes, the while his own new ones were a-
making.

So this way did it continue as my father said.
And we four children, being Dickon and Francis
and Simon Peter, with httle poor me, that was
the one girl to herself 'mongst the lads' game-
some roughness — we four did grow up together
as brothers an' sister ; scarce anywise remem-
bering (for all we might daily see in outside
looks) the difference in blood. Nay, I will tell
true an' say out — howe'er some do think it
■shameth nature — that I loved Simon the best

117

o' the three. He was the kindest and the lov-
ingest to me, I trow ; not that the other ones
durst be contrariwise, — or would, — but 't was
Simon that ever tarried behind with me if I
fell back a-weary by hard following after the
rest. Sometimes he bore me on his back 'cross
the stony ground or thro' the running water —
a-holding on for dear life round his neck. And
when I 'd a mind to be playing with my doll
Queen Bess at a brave feast, with wine in acorn
cups and the like child's play-acting foolery,
why, 't was ever Frank an' Dicky that mocked
and would fain turn all naughtily upside down,
to plague me, had not Simon so stoutly stood
my part against them.

Now, as to the color of his skin (that some
amongst you listening would so mislike, may-
hap), I being used to it life-long, in a manner,
was nowise frighted at that. For the rest, he
was comely enough. His eyes, they were of a
very dark blackness, but piercing keen and
bright ; his hair was black and straight down-
hanging, and not soft to touch, tho' he would be
oft a-laying his head beside me to be stroked with
my two hands. Slim-shapen as a maid was he
and fair-featured, like to the pictures of Princess
Pocahontas herself, whom some accounted beau-
tiful — and his hands and feet were scarce big-
ger than mine own. Yet, for all thus lightsomely
builded, his strength was to the strength of
Francis an' Dickon as steel to wood, be it never
so hard wood and heavy, or a silken cord, hard
twisted, to a rude hempen string. There was
never a horse that could throw him after that
he was big enough to sit well astride its back —
not even the wildest colt of all on that land
— when the lads would be riding them to water
morn and even, or mayhap (for the learning
of horsemanship) around i' the pasture field.
Francis an' Dick had many a tumble, I promise
you, but Simon never a one. At running, wrest-
ling, and all such, who but he ? Then surely, I
do reckon, there was never another so wondrous
quick at book-learning, so knowledgeable and
cunning skillful in all ways. Nay, time would
fail me to tell you the half of his ingenious de-
visings. Such curious things as he would oft
be cutting with his knife, to be sure ! — as beasts,
birds, fishes, and what not, — aye ! even human
Hkenesses no less, out of slate, stone, or wood, or

ii8

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

maybe naught but a handful of damson seeds;
and for snaring of wildwood game or catching
of fish, his niatcli was never seen.

Howsoever, despite of these advantagements,
and despite of general good behavior in decent
Christian manner o' life, yet, crost in humor, was
he still (as my mother scrupled not to say out,
when by him displeasured) the son o' his father
and true child of lawless race. Can one be
holden guilty of his birth-shame, good sooth,
or cast out the blood that naturally runneth in 's
veins ? Nay, not so — meseemeth. Therefore
it did sorely hurt me to hear my mother ever
blaming Simon with all that went amiss 'twixt
him and Francis. She was a good woman,
Heaven rest her ! and true lover of them she
did love, but yet they were precious few so
fayored, and Simon not one amongst them.
Now, with Dickon (he being of a rare sweet
humor) did Simon carry it peaceably enow;
but with Francis, who was heady and stubborn-
tempered as Simon himself, — aye, quicker to
make mad, tho' not so fierce i' the end — as for
those two, they would be often at odds. And
one day, when she did come upon these twain,
a-fighting tooth and nail, with Francis under-
most an' like to get the worst on 't, then she
cried out on Simon, for a heathenish beggar's
brat, who would come to hanging or shooting
yet, as 't was to be hoped his father had 'fore
now. 'T was a right cruel word, there 's no
denying ; yet was she sorely vext, for her excuse.
However, he turned upon her with so tiger-
fierce a look that she, stepping back, cried out,
" What, snake-eye ! wilt thou murther me as I
stand ? "

And so he looked a'most ready to do, in
sooth ; but up cometh my father then, who
was a just man to see the rights and wrongs of
such quarrels, and quoth he, " Foolish w-oman,
wilt thou put thought o' such evil into him
that 's but a passionate child ? Was 't not fair
fight betwixt them till thou didst stir up this ?
Look well to thine own \villful young one, an'
leave the lad to me."

So, after that time my mother was carefuller
of such vexing speech ; yet she liked Simon
Peter no whit more in her heart.

Aye, aye; he was no gentle lamb, in truth,
nor neither was our Francis for the matter o'

that — but Simon was ever kind and loving
enough unto me.

But yet ye must not be thinking that this was
ever the way o't with us. We 'd a happy home
as any, for all such quarrelings now and again.
There was work to be done, a plenty, on the
new rugged land, and no negro slaves to tempt
white folk into idly looking on the while they be
driven as brute-beasts to toil an' moil. Some
few had the Dutch ships fetched, e'en then, for
trial, but my father would none of them. So
when that the lads were grown big enough, they
must needs be a-working i' the corn-fields and
tobacco ground, whilst I, with my mother and
the maids indoors, was learning of house matters,
as becometh a proper girl. Yet we 'd no stint
of sports, in due season. 'T was gayly and free
we were i' the summer evens, I promise you ;
yet the best of all came round on winter nights,
when, the work being all foredone, we might
sit us down by the fire so curiously a-listening
to our father's talk an' tellings of former times.
A many fine tales we heard then, concerning the
first comers-over to Virginia, their hardships,
trials, and very dreadful sufferings in every sort ;
and of the great Captain John Smith, that was
so bold a fighter, and likewise of the most gentle
Princess Pocahontas, who did risk her life for
the saving of his, and was afterward, in her lov-
ing-kindness, the savior of this whole Virginia
from destruction ; also concerning the old poli-
tic King Powhatan, his state and majestical be-
havior — and I promise you that Simon would
be alway keenly hearkening to that. Also, my
father told us about the dark time of the famine
at Jamestown, when our people did, for very
starving hunger, horridly eat the carcasses of
such amongst them as had of hunger died ; and
that was what Dickon liked best of all to hear ;
but, for my part, I would the rather choose the
wreck of the ship " Sea- Venture," that was
casted away on the Bermuda Isles, a-com-
ing to Virginia, and how one Master William
Shakspere, 'way off in England, hearing o't
aftenvhile, did make it into an acting play called
" The Tempest " — that is oft played i' London
Town to this very day.

So time passed, year after year, till our Dickon
was a great lad, with Francis and Simon turned
thirteen year old, and me 'most counting ten;

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

119

and then came to pass those strange, curious
happenings whereof I will now relate.

Now, all this while that Simon so dwelt con-
tentedly amongst us we did never hear aught to
a certainty of Nemattanow, called Jack o' the
Feather. One time, or twice, came a bruit from
'way off yonder, as how such an one had espied
him here, or another there ; and once somebody
told it that he had been catched sight of in the
great Indian town to northward, on York River,
a-ruffling it with the other braves and in high
favor with the king, Opechancanough. How-
soever, he troubled us not, all this so long while,
and well-nigh had we forgot him, in sooth, till
on a luckless day at last we 'd a pretty prick o'
the memory !

Now, 't was one fair even in May-month o'
the year 1622, when this turn on a sudden came
to pass.

I mind me right well, as 't were but yester
eve, how the sky did shine all of a rosy golden
color, and the little winds did blow so softly,
with smell o' May-blooms and sound o' bird-
songs every which-a-way. 'T was milking-time,
a bit past sundown, and all of us out nigh the
cow-pen down i' the meadow. And my father
and mother so leisurely looked on whilst the
maids milked; yet we children did care naught
how much went dairy-way so we 'd only our fill
o' the syllabub and our sport with the youngling
calves. And there were we, so merrily together,
when who doth come walking out of the wood's
edge hard by and so boldly into our very midst
but an Indian man that I 'd never before set
eyes on.

Now, he was of a tall stature, and fierce-ap-
pearing withal. His skin was mighty dark and
weather-worn. His quiver for arrows was fash-
ioned out of a wolf's hide, with the natural head
right grisly hanging down, having a sort of wild
terror i' the look o't. In his right hand he did
carry a great bow, and also in the way of war-
like arms a tomahawk set in 's leathern girdle.
Upon his shoulders, breast, and legs, that were
naked and sunburnt to blackness, were painted
stripes and rings in divers colors commingled.
Round his neck and wrists did hang great strings
o' beads, right gaudily colored — and for all his
fierce aspect he 'd earrings, like any woman,
a-dangling from his ears. Atop of his head the

hair stood up bristling in a narrow ridge, after
the way of a cockscomb, from brow to nape,
but 't was clean shaven away on both sides;
and out-topping all — being someway outland-
ishly stuck i' the very crown o' the ridge — was
a prodigiously great and long eagle's feather.

Then all of us stopped short our doings as he
drew nigh, for gazing curiously upon him. And
in answer to mannerly good-even of us all, he
did give, as 't were, a grunt, after the fashion of
his people, belike ; yet when my father saith to
him then, " Sir, what is your business here this
even ? " he said not a word, only he stood stead-
fastly looking upon Simon.

So then we did all turn the same way, and
behold! Simon had gone ashen-white under
his natural brownness ; and he stood stone-still,
a-staring at that other, like, mayhap, as when
one doth see on a sudden the ghost of somebody
long dead, and well-nigh forgot, beck to him out
o' the darkness. And whiles we all so stood, in
wonder, the Indian man, pointing to his own
breast, did say, in a harsh voice, "Me father,
me father ! " and then, pointing to Simon straight,
said, " He son, he son ! " Which spoken he
waved his hand back that way he had come
and cried in a louder voice right fiercely, saying,
" Son go with father ! "

Then Simon answered ne'er a word, but my
father spoke up, crying, " Ha ! Jack o' the
Feather ! I thought I had seen thy rascally face
before. Barest thou set foot in these parts again ?
A pretty father thou art, that didst leave thy son
to starve ! 'T is no thanks to thee, I trow, that
he is 'Hve an' well to-day, an' by right and might
I swear he shall not go with thee, fellow, except
he himself do so choose ! "

Then saith he to the lad, " Simon Peter, this
is in truth thy father, of whose kindness to thee
thou 'st often heard tell. Wilt thou willingly go
with him ? "

But yet Simon was as one dumb, speaking no
word ; only he shook in every limb as struck by
a shaking ague. And Jack o' the Feather, see-
ing that, saith unto him a few words, right low,
— i' the Indian tongue, I reckon, for they were
such as none among us sensed the meaning of.
Now 't was little of that speech that Simon did
by this while remember, save a word o't here
an' there, half lost in 's mind. Howsoe'er, when

I 20

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

that he did hear it now spoken, he looked in a
wild way, as when one heareth in dreams a very
strange back-drawing voice of witchery that he
may scarce resist but is yet death-frighted to fol-
low. In faith, I was like to cry out loud that
moment — for I did think by the look o' his
eyes then that he was going sure enow. Never-
theless was there no need for such fear, for he
on a sudden put his two hands over his face and
cried out with a loud voice, " No ! no ! no ! I
will not go with thee ! "

Now, that hearing, the Indian looked a very
black, murtherous look, and laid hand on his
tomahawk, but my father, stepping quick afore
the lad, saith unto him, " Begone ! " in such voice
as e'en Jack o' the Feather dare not brook, I
ween. Go he did, of a truth, an' that straight-
way, yet slept he slow and proudly, as in very
vexing scorn ; and at the wood's edge he turned
him round and waved his bow in threating way,
as half in mind to shoot. Howbeit, that he did
not, but passed into the dark forest, and we saw
him no more. And, I promise you, e'en my
mother did carry it right lovingly to Simon
that night.

Now the chance that did befall Jack o' the
Feather that same even, aye, within the very
same hour, was none of our fault, thank Heaven !
yet truly scarce more than his fair desert and no
just cause of grieving to anybody. 'T was as he
was making so hardily, and in a swaggering
manner o' boldness, along the open highway,
that whom doth he meet, face to face, but Mas-
ter Thomas Godkyn! Small wonder (as was
commonly said by all) that Master Godkyn
waxed right mad at that sight. Be that as may,
he was ever a passionate man, besides that time
somewhat in liquor, no less, an' there passed
sharp words betwixt 'em on that old matter o'
the maimed bull. 'T was Jack o' the Feather
that struck first blow (as Master Godkyn did after-
time solemnly swear) and 't was Master GodkjTi
that slew him in the fight that so followed. And
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the
rather a safe riddance o' mischief As to the
manner of that fight, I do remember it well,
having oft with mine own ears heard him, our
neighbor, relate the same. A shrewd tussle it
was, he did use to say, an' betwixt two that were
o'envell matched to make one the easy master;

and so a-saying would he shake head right so-
berly thereupon, at mere after calling o't to mind.
'T was the red man that struck first blow, as I
said afore. " Mayhap the gallows will be high
enow. Sir Jack, for even your top notions," quoth
Master Godkyn, and, hearing this spoken, lo !
that other gave a very brutish, fierce cry, and
flinging behind him his great bow (which same
was no ready weapon in such sudden encounter),
he made at Master Godkyn with his tomahawk.
Howsoever, that stroke, for all it did start the
blood (and that from no mere skin-scratch,
neither), fell somewhat short, belike, — and e'en
whilst he raised the murtherous thing aloft for
another down-come, why, then did Master God-
kyn with a swift cunning dash o' the fist, that he
had learnt long agone when a young sporting
lad in England, strike it clean out of his hand.
So there was Jack o' the Feather fairly disarmed ;
but yet, in sooth, the worst o't was still to come
for Master Godk)-n ; for when he would essay to
draw his good knife from his belt, why, what doth
that savage but clip him on a sudden in 's arms
as who would then and there squeeze very heart
and life out of his body. He was a strong proper
man as the most, was Master Godkyn, and stoutly
builded, to give blow or withstand, but a many
a time have I heard him say how on the first
amaze of this besetment he was but as little chick
in the coil of a black whip-snake. Truly this
weakness did in a moment pass — for the fear
of a sudden death maketh strong — and even as
Master Godkyn did feel his breath going from
him he made shift to catcli it again. Whereupon
'gan the struggle in good earnest. For that Indian,
his arms were as iron hard, and cruel strong, and
his ribs were as brass ; yet was the white man
he had thus laid hold on, not one to stand still
an' be crushed in any such devil's-trap. There
they had it, for sure, this way, that, an' t' other,
— a-straining and a-tugging for dear life 'gainst
foul death. 'T was a right curious turn o' the
mind (so Master Godkyn said afterward), and
such as the like of had ne'er before come unto
him, but 't was sure-enough truth, no less, that
he did remember and see plain, 'fore his senses
in a moment, nay, in the twinkling of an eye, that
time, all things he had ever done and said of good
or ill, life-long. Also it came to him in a sharp,
raging way, as 't were a dagger struck through

>■]

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

121

the heart, how many perils he had 'scapen, by
land and sea, to fall now, mayhap, by such base
means at last. So ran this thought within him,
lightning-quick and furious : What ! was 't for
this he did over-live the sweating-sickness in
London Town, and the fight w ith pirates a-com-
ing 'cross the ocean
( wherein so many
bold fellows were
bloodily cut down),
and the wreck of the
"Sea-Venture" (for
he was one o' that
company), an' all
the starving-time at
Jamestown — with
many other notable
dangers, past men-
tion — to die not
Christianly in his
bed at last, but in
sudden unbeknown
fight with a red In-
dian knave, and he
not even accounted
anybody 'mongst his
own people. Then
that was a bitter-
black thought, for-
sooth, but yet, may-
be, the saving o' his
life, no less ; for e'en
in the swift passing
rage thereof, he be-
thought him of a
wrestling trick well-
nigh forgot in 's
mind that might
avail him at this
pinch. Now, by this
trick it was that he
tripped up and over-
threw his adversary,
who, falling right
heavily undermost upon the stony highway, did
perforce somewhat loosen that fell grip ; and so
it came to pass that Master Godkyn did make
out at last to draw his knife, and then, as Jack
o' the Feather started up again (like any fierce
beast that 's brought to its last bay), why, then
Vol. XVII.— 15.

did Master Godkyn, for defending of his own life,
stab him to the very heart so that he fell back
an' died.

So that was the end of that encounter. And
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the
rather a safe riddance o' mischief. And the dead

SOMETIMES HE BORE ME ON HIS BACK TilK

RUNNING WATER.

body was given o'er to two of his kin, who did
hap to come a-seeking him, and bore it back
with them that way they came — nor did any
man at that time call Master Godkyn to account
for the same; only it seemeth to me always a
fearsome thing to have man's blood on one's

122

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

hands; neither was I anywise astonished at
Simon's taking of the news when my father told
it him. Was 't not his natural bom father, in
sooth, flesh o' his flesh, blood o' his blood — de-
spite of opposing misbehavior ? So it seemed as
naught strange to me, as to the rest, that he hid
himself away from sight of all, that day of hear-
ing it, and for many days afterward had few
words to speak to anybody.

Well, well ! a right wonderful thing is nature,
truly, and it taketh its own way despite of law
and gospel and all contrary custom. Now,
whether 't was the kilUng o' his father at that
time, or whether the natural turn o' his mind to
work darksomely upon itself, that did bring
round such change in Simon, God knoweth 1
but a change there was, for certain. He had
ne'er been given to chatter overmuch, but 't was
fairly as one tongue-tied he did now appear.
As for the daily tasks, them did he do as afore-
time, only in a sullen and grievous way, like to
any driven slave; yet he sported no more at all,
the rather choosing that time to himself for lone-
somely walking abroad or brooding in some
corner apart. Alackaday ! The poor lad ! my
heart doth ache for him now. 'T was a strange
case to be so situate betwixt one's natural race
and kindred and such as were bounden enemies
(and that past control of will) 'gainst them and
theirs forever. Aye, aye; for all I was but a
child then, and too little to sense aright the ins
and outs thereof, it hath come to me since, I
trow; an' small wonder 't is that the blackness
of his eyes i' those days was as night without
moon or star.

Now, as to his own Indian race and nation, he
had ne'er aforetime been curious in asking of
questions, for all ever keenly a-listening to aught
about them spoken. Neither did he inquire
anything by word of mouth in these days
whereof I tell, only he would be now always
secretly spelling o'er in my father's books what
was there writ tlown concerning the same, by
Captain John Smith and others. Also many 's
the time I did see him pick up an Indian arrow-
head from the ground (for there were many
thereabout scattered) and so stand gazing upon
it, goodness knoweth how long by the clock I as
thinking strange thoughts inside of him, may-
hap, and clean forgetting all else in this world.

Also, would he oft be walking solitarily and spy-
ing 'mongst some two or three ancient ruined
wigwams left long empty i' the wood hard by ;
yet, I promise you, if our lads durst ever any-
wise plague him concerning this so strange be-
havior he was as tow to fire. So it passed, day
in and out, weeks and months one after t' other,
till the summer season o' that year was gone
and autumn did come round.

Now, concerning the very dreadful thing that
then befell in Virginia, '.t was even as a thunder-
bolt out of a fair even sky, with not the merest
little small cloud for a warning aforetime. Nay,
whoever would in reason have foredreamt it or
supposed it as anywise possible, e'en of that most
subtle, secret, and murtherous Indian people,
after so long peace and friendly commingling
together ! Surely never in this world was so
cruel and barbarous assault so unprovoken ; for
as to the killing of Jack o' the Feather, which
same mishap, 't was afterward told, had been
made a handle of by the King Opechancanough
in stirring up of wrath 'gainst the English — as
to that, but little store did the red people truly
set by him, I do reckon, nor was any white man
but the one (being Master Godkyn himself) con-
cerned in that business. Neither could those
Indians anywise justly complain how the whites
had them in a manner dispossest, seeing that
themselves had willingly consented thereto.
Was 't they, or their forefathers, that did 'stablish
boundaries, dig foundations, or make any proper
decent settlements ? Nay, not so ; nor doth
he set overmuch value on God's earth, I 'm
thinking, who will sell the same to first-comer
for a string o' beads or gaudy garment. A full
ten year and more had peace continued, with
kindness and good neighboring on both sides.
And many of the Indians had removed 'way oflf
to northward into the great woods on York
River, but )-et a manv more were still tarrying
amongst us, aye, not a few in fair houses builded
for them, English fashion, by the settlers. More-
over, not a few, again, had been taken in, even as
Simon, by the whites as children or dear favored
servants ; and thus, lo and behold ! did it come
to pass that these vipers for the most part, being
warmed and filled, did in very natural poisonous
malice strike the hand that fed them, or the
rather as under-sappers and miners of the walls

1889.]

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

123

that sheltered them seek to fetch all down —
e'en tho' to their own crushing destruction — by
the fell blow of this bloody vengeance. So was
the foul plot laid in secret for that massacre, the
dreadfulest thing that did ever hap in all Vir-
ginia, and such as I pray God will never be
again — and of it, as I said before, was no
littlest warning given. There be sometimes
signs an' signals in nature foretelling such ca-
lamity, as have oftentimes been proven. Yea,
a-many a one have I myself taken note of for
lesser trouble than that. Howsoever, for all
our dairy-wench, Dolly Shaw, would be telhng
afterward about a death-watch ticking in her
ear nine nights a-running, and a bloody red
sunrise on the Friday mom next afore that
woful Christmas day — why, it was all too late,
as my mother said, for any such talk then.

And it came to pass, one even in December
month, that I did follow Simon on one of his
lonesome goings unto those old crumbling wig-
wams i' the woods, whereof I have told. 'T was
Httle note he had taken of me an' my plays
for many a long day, sure enough, but I was
a- wearying of mine own company that time, with
Francis an' Dick gone a-hunting and my mother
and all the maids too busy o'er house matters to
speak me even a word. So running after Simon
(afar off, yet ever keeping him in sight) I did go
along into the dark, thick forest ; yet when he
reached that place I hardly durst fetch up unto
him, but stopped and hid me behind a little
cedar bush hard by the path to screw up my
courage. And behold ! whiles I was standing
there a-peeping thro', what did I see but a very
tall and fierce-appearing Indian man come out
o' the nighest wigwam and fall a-talking with
Simon.

So there stood they, face to face; and there
stood 1 — a-looking frightedly — 'most ready to
run back that way I 'd come, only I durst not,
any more than go on. Ne'er a word that they
said could I hear, but I saw that the tall Indian
spake as 't were earnestly, and with right fierce,
uncouth gestures did enforce the same. Also I
saw that, at the first of it, Simon did shake head
an' turn away — as who mayhap doth say, "No,
no, no ! " to somewhat or other and will scarce
hearken thereto. Whereupon the man, waxing
still more vehement, stamped upon the ground

and pointed fiercely with 's long cruel-shapen
fingers, this way, that, an' t' other — till presenUy
I, making sure that he pointed once straight at
me, fell down for very terror where I stood. So
I lay a-quaking. And after a while (goodness
knoweth how long ! but it did seem monstrous
long to me) came Simon himself, a-running
back, — yet heavily and stumbling as one half-
blind, — and so espied me there.

Then he stood as one amazed, looking first
at me, then back o'er his shoulder fearsomely ;
but I perceived that the strange Indian had
turned away, making off swiftly into the wood.
And Simon cried out to me, " Gillian ! Gillian !
didst thou hear what he said ? Didst hear ? "
And I said truly, nay ; but that I saw the man.
Whereupon I fell a-crying for very fear of I
knew not what. And I said, " Oh, Simon !
what hast thou to do with the dreadful dark
man ? Oh, prythee take me home, Simon, lest
he should come again!" For truly I was
frighted 'most to death at the very thought o'
that, and I held him tight, a-weeping. But he
cried out loud, vehemently, " No ! no I he will
not come. He shall not hurt thee ! He shall
not ! he shall not ! They shall ne'er hurt thee
in this world, my little sister Gilhan ! "

So with that he comforted me, saying those
same words o'er and o'er again, " Gilhan ! Gil-
lian ! my little sister, Gillian ! " And so drying
my tears right kindly, as ni}' brother might, he
did carry me home (when that I had ceased to
weep) afore him in his arms. But he straightly
charged me to tell nobody that which I had seen ;
and I, knowing naught of the harm thereof, did
promise to keep it secret.

Now, that was nigh a week before Christmas,
which same was the secretly appointed time.
Never before had his mood been so black, I
trow, e'en at worst. 'T was as if an ill disease
had him fast, for truly the flesh wasted off" his
bones from one day to next, and scarce a mor-
sel of victual would he be eating. I do think
that e'en my mother had more pitied than
blamed him that while, but for his darksome
scowls and downcast shunning o' the looks of us
all. But as it was, in sooth, she cried, " He
surely hath a devil ! Alackaday ! " quoth she,
" that such an one, so possest in evil, did ever
come into this house ! " Aye, even m\' father

124

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

turned 'gainst him then, for saith he, " Is this
how he doth repay my kindness to him, hfe-long !
'T is an ill-conditioned lad," quoth he, " an' my
wife hath been wiser than I, all along, in this
matter. Let none either chide or coax, but all
leave him alone in his foul sulking humor till
I find place for him otherwhere than in my
house."

So by that command did all abide. In sooth,
I do reckon, I was the only one of all i' the
house that did anywise yearn to the contrary.
But I durst not bespeak Simon a word, and thus
was he left to his own thoughts an' devices till
the very day came round.

I mind well that Christmas eve, an' for the
matter o' that there be few a-living in this Vir-
ginia, from then till now, who have forgot the
same, I do reck. Such a baking and brewing,
such roasting and boiling, such a garnishing an'
making ready for next day's feast, as there was
with us, to be sure ' for howsoever times might
pinch in common, my father and mother needs
must be making shift to keep Christmas holi-
day i' the good old English fashion of their
young days. I mind how we had a brave pasty
that day for dinner, in foretaste o' the morrow,
and when we sat down at table, at about one
o' the clock, all were there a'ready to eat but
Simon. Whereupon my father saith, " Where
is Master Doleful Dumps, I pray ? " And my
mother cried, " Dear heart, I do neither know
nor care 1 " But Dolly Shaw, who stood behind
her chair, spake up, saWng, " He is in the top
loft o' the house, where he hath e'en been well-
nigh all day, a-sulking." Then Dickon would
be asking (for he had e'er a rare sweet humor,
had our Dick), '• Shall I run tell him o' the
pasty ? " Howsoever, the master made answer.
No. " Let him wait till he be hungry," quoth
he, " for I warrant empty stomach needs no
coaxing. He will be high in place tho' low in
spirit, it doth seem. Fetch him not down."

So then all did go on to eat without more ado ;
but, for mine own part, the victual seemed to
go against me that day.

Now, when that the meal was o'er, some went
one way, some another, about their several mat-
ters; yet I could do naught in pleasure for think-
ing of Simon, 'way up yonder, so lonesome and
without cheer. In faith, I was alwavs a loving

little lass, an' tender-true to them that had
showed me kindness ; nor could I then deck my
doll in holiday fashion, nor look on at the maids
i' the kitchen, nor sport with my tame deer, nor
anywise content me with this trouble on my
mind. Wherefore, as hour after hour did pass,
I bethought me how thirsty he must be by that
time. 'T was not of hunger I would be think-
ing, for truly he seemed to have forgot the feel
o' that in those days ; but all must surely drink
to live. 'T was a green Christmas, that (and
such as old folk say maketh a fat graveyard),
and mighty warm for the season ; and I had
noted well, at time of breakfast that morn, how
Simon, eating no single mouthful, drank scarce
one cup o' milk. Moreover, I also bethought
me how folk would oft be talking of peace an'
good will at Christmas-tide, even as the Bible
telleth that angels sang unto those shepherds
a-listening on the hill-top ; yet, in sooth, that
saying did then appear but an idle mock to me,
and no peace in mine heart at all, with Simon
left out a-cold. And so I said within myself,
" 'T is surely no harm nor naughty disobedience,
nor will my father 'count it any such, if I carry
him a drink." Then I took from the mantel-
shelf mine own silver cup, that my grandmother
Griffin had sent unto me for a christening gift,
all the way from England, and fetched it brim-
ming full o' fresh fair water from the spring,
unseen by anybody. And I went with it in my
two hands so softly (for fear of spilling) up the
big stair an' the little steep stair into the great
loft room.

Now, 't was the first time that I did ever go
alone, of mine own accord, into that room, for
it had ever seemed to me a strange and awe-
some place, mayhap resembling some such as
we hear tell of in old enchanted houses or the
like. Not that our house had been builded
long, or was aught like a grand big castle.
Nay I But in this top room that spread all o'er
the bigness o't, it was ever half dark as twilight,
having only one litde small window for the
whole, and the great beams o' the roof so heav-
ily sloping down, with cobwebs hanging there-
from. Then a-many strange things were there
stored away for safe-keeping that no place might
be found for i' the house below, such as the
skins of divers beasts, tanned with the fur on,

^^^

THERE THEV HAI) IT, FOR SURE, THIS WAY, THAT, AN* t' OTHEli."

126

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

[Dec.

as they had been killed from time to time, and
hanged up for some-day use ; or weapons of
warfare, as swords, pikes, bludgeons, and so on,
laid by 'gainst troublous times. Also, was there
a great bedstead that my mother would be
keeping for the fitting of a guest-chamber after-
while, with the tall carven posts bewrapt in white
linen an' looking like any four ghosts i' their
shrouds; with ancient storage-chests, broken
tables, chairs, and what not of relics from the
Old World, mingled together disorderly with
trophies of the New.

Now, at first I saw nothing at all of Simon,
and 'gan to think he was there no longer, when
presently I did espy him. There was he, sure
enough, in a far dim corner, a-sitting dolefully,
as 't were, all huddled up on one o' the big chests.
Only, his face and hands 1 could not see, for they
were hid in a wolfskin there hanging from a
beam o'erhead, even as a child doth cling and
hide face in his mother's skirt, ma3hap — as I
bethought me then and afterward. So I waited
a litde space, but yet he did not look up nor sdr ;
and then I went softly 'cross the floor, till being
come nigh I did hold up the cup an' say, " Simon,
I have fetched thee a drink ! " Then he let go
of the wolfskin and looked up, a-shuddering all
o'er his body and appearing, mayhap, like one
on a sudden half waken from a very dark, horrid
dream, whereby he is still holden an' distrest,
not knowing false from true. Yet never a word
he spake ; only stared so strangely at me as I
stood. Whereupon I said again, — for all a bit
quaking at the woful blackness o' his gaze, —
" Art thou not thirsty, Simon ? Dost thou not
know 't is Christmas-tide ? An' wilt thou not
drink this fair water in mine own silver cup —
for peace an' good will ? "

Still he looked at me in a wild way, and all
round the room, shaking like as if I had struck
him with those words. Yet did he not take the
water ; and all o' the instant, e'en as I so stood
reaching it out unto him — lo ! he gave a very
dreadful sharp cry, like somewhat had broke
within him, and flung him face down on the
floor betwi.xt us.

Now, at that I stood frighted and trembling,
till the water was spilled and the cup nigh
fell from my hand. And naught durst I say, or
could, but " Simon I Simon! " o'er and o'er again.

.\nd to that he made no answer, only so a-lying
i' the dust did strike on the floor with his hand —
most dreadfully a-weeping and moaning, for
some space ; till presently he, looking up, said
unto me, " Call the master 1 "

Then I went down, as fast as I might for legs
a-trembling underneath me, and called my father,
who did come up hastily and wondering at that
summons. .\lso my mother came a-running
behind, and the maids from their cookery, and
the lads from cleaning of their guns i' the hall —
all in haste and amazedly to see what was toward
now. And when my father was come into the
room (for those others did but listen on the
stair) there was Simon, a-standing straight up,
\et shaking as who doth face death.

Then, 'fore ever my father might ask e'en.
How 's this ? he cried out loud, saying, " There
is yet time ! There is yet time ! Strike me dead
when I have told it," crieth he, " but listen to me
first ! " Then saith he on, " They have whetted
their knives. They have sharpened their toma-
hawks— for blood, blood, blood, this night!
Opechancanough, the king, hath planned it —
all the red men have sworn together. This
night by darkfall will the kiUing begin all o'er
Virginia — the killing o' the white people ! "

And he, throwing himself down on 's knees
afore my father, said in a wild way, " Master I
Master ! They did promise me not to slay thee,
or Gillian, or Dick. I did vow at first to tell,
'less they promised me that. Yet have I seen it
'fore mine eyes, day an' night — the blood and
the killing — and the crying was in mine ears.
Then Gillian came with the water — and now I
prythee strike me dead, for I am false to both
sides ! I am neither white nor red — an' not
anywise worth to live ! "

Now, that hearing, my mother and the maids
cried out for fear, " God ha' mercy ! What
will become of us ! " and there came a white-
ness even o'er my father's face, for 't was a fear-
some dreadful thing to think of, an' the sun nigh
going down — as from the little window we
might see. Howsoever, he laid not his hand
on the lad, but, after that he had bidden the
woman take heart o' grace, he said unto him,
'• Up, boy, an' get thee down with me. Thou
hast been bad enow, God knoweth ; — but 't is
our part to save, an' not to kill, this night. I

THE WHITE AND THE RED.

127

wll give thee chance a plenty, by St. George !
to prove thee yet worthy hving."

'T was well we had good horses and strong —
aye, an' well-fed — in our stable, for 't was both
fast and far they needs must go that even.
Good twenty miles were we from Jamestown,
as the crow flieth ; eighteen miles the way lay
to Wyanoke on one hand, nineteen or so was it
to Falling Creek on t' other — through wood
and swamp, with scarce road or track at all. As
for my father, he must needs stay for our defense
at home ; but on the three fleetest horses the
three lads did go to warn and save such as
might be. I mind how my mother wept over
an' kissed Francis and Dickon as 't were death-
parting to see them go — and sooth, poor soull
I reckon she guessed full well how 't would be
with them both, if they made not good speed ere
sundown. But unto Simon 't was only my father
that said good-bye, when he started the James-
town way, on wild Blackamoor a-riding. " Now,
if thou wouldst show human good inside thee,"
saith he, " I charge thee ride thy best." And
Simon's face was as any stone set when he heard
that word and started forth.

Well, well ! 't is over an' done, bless Heaven !
this many a year agone, and may we never
see the like of such a Christmas e'er again in
Virginia, I do pray ! Good speed the three
lads made in their several ways. 'T was Simon
that did first win to the end o' his, for all it was
the longest. So was Jamestown saved, and so
likewise did those two other settlements 'scape
from fire and bloody slaughter. I promise you,
those murtherous yelling knaves that came
'gainst our house that night did find my father
ready with warmer welcome than they looked
for. Yet alas and alas for them who had no
such a warning as ours ! and alas for all Virginia
that bitter, cruel night ! Right bloodily the white
people wrought vengeance for 't in aftertime.
Aye, aye ; 't was said they did hunt the Indians
like wild beasts, in some parts, with bloodhounds

fetched o'er from England a purpose for the busi-
ness ; yet it brought not the dead ones to life
again, so killed in sudden horrid massacre. At
Warrasqueake, an' Flower de Hundred, and
Martin's Brandon, and Westover — nay, where
not elsewhere, i' faith, save the three places that
our three lads did save ! All o'er the land, to
tell truth, was foul murther done ; with hundreds
o' dead corpses that were live and warm at sun-
down left a-cold ere daybreak, and that unhu-
manly hacked to bits in a manner not befitting
civil ears to hear tell of I trow the Christmas
viands were but funeral meats that woful time,
an' Christmas hymns of cheer all turned to
dirges. Yea, lads an' lasses here a-listening, ye
may e'en thank God on bended knees this night
for that these days be not like them agone !

Now as to Totapotamoi, or Simon Peter, as we
always called him, we never saw that lad more,
nor heard to any certainty what did become
o' him. My father found the horse Blackamoor
safe enough in James City next morn, but 'mongst
all the townsfolk none might know how it had
gone with the rider when his message was told.
And whether he slew himself in dark despairing
mood ; or was slain by the Indians in wrath for
his betrayal of their wickedness ; or whether
he doth still live with them, his natural kin and
race, in the great woods behind the mountains
(as was long aftertime rumored credibly to be
the way o't), God knoweth, not I ; but it hath
always pleased me to think him still a-living, an'
that some day 'fore I died I might set eyes on
him again.

'T was many a long day ere my heart would
give o'er aching at the thought o' him, for all
the folk would oft be a-telling me that time and
after, with tears and kisses, that wdien God him-
self did put into my head to fetch the Indian lad
that water in my silver cup, 't was even (in the
saving o' precious lives) as the Bible saith con-
cerning them that so a-doing will not lose their
goodly reward.

THE STORY OF THE ICEBERG.

:^inn^ nm^rf*- , -— - ■•*■*

M. ^

' Out JrptH tlie dark, mystey^ous North,
li'ith all its glatnour, ez<ery night
Tingling ivith unforgotten dreams,
A nd every day Jlood-fnll of light."

128

THE STORY OF THE ICEBERG.

By Harriet Prescott Spofford.

How weary the ice-river grew

In those dark months of winter night,

And, poised upon his lofty cliff,

Longed, longed, for other worlds and flight.

What use was all his mighty mold,
With none to wonder and admire

The light and color that he held.
The moonstone gleam, the opal fire !

In vain the mother glacier showed
Pale altars answering with cold rites

The flashes of eternal stars,

The lances of the northern lights ;

A band of sunbeams came that way,

Tempted, and touched, and lured him
on, —

Wild dreams of suns and southern skies, —
A wrench, a plunge, and he was gone.

With swift embrace the billows swelled
To meet him, leaping twice and thrice

In thunder, ere they led him forth,
King of a world of floating ice.

Down, down, by viewless currents drawn,
His huge mass underneath the sea.

His lofty tops enskyed, he moved
Like some vast fleet in majesty, —

Out from the dark, mysterious North,

With all its glamour, every night
Tingling with unforgotten dreams.

And every day flood-full of Hght.

The white bear slumbered in his caves ;

The sunbeams played about his tips;
Down, down he bore to summer seas

And crashed his way through sinking ships.

And drowning sailors saw on high
Those icy walls where surges tossed,

Descended out of heaven, a pile
Of jeweled splendor fired in frost.
Vol. XVII.— i6. 129

Lapis and turquois pierced with light
To sapphire, emerald hollows paled

To beryl, topaz burning clear
In flames of chrysolite, he sailed.

Down, down to equatorial seas

Still slowly drifting, — ah, how sweet

These soft caresses of the tide
Far in the depths about his feet !

How tenderly this morning gleam

Saluted all his shining spires.
That far away the voyager saw

Tipped with the blaze of ruby fires !

How ardently through warm south winds
The stresses of the noontide beat.

Till brooks burst forth far up his sides.
Dissolving in a fervent heat.

Now plumed with streaming smoke he went,

Now but a cloud of amethyst.
The ghost of glory, weird and white.

Now wrapt within a world of mist.

The sweet and treacherous currents still
Around his weakening bases whirled,

The great throat of the hurricane

Tremendous blasts against him hurled.

Into blue air he crept ; and now

Those sunbeams armed with javelins
swarmed,
A hostile legion, fierce and fain.

And all his awful beauty stormed.

Ah, for that dim dark home once more.
Those lances of the northern lights !

Then his tops bent them to their fall.

The \\-ide seas rose and drowned his heights.

And, but a hulk of crumbling ice.
Within the deep he found his grave,

Stranded upon a hidden key.

And washed to nothing by a wave.

(A A'orse Tale Freely Retold." )

By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen.

'HERE was once a cler-
gyman who lived some-
where in the interior
mountain valleys of
Norway. . He had five
children, all of whom
were dear to him ; but
there was one among
them who was nearer
to his heart than all
the rest ; and that was
a little girl, five years
old, named Alvilda. It
may have been because she was the youngest
of the five ; and the youngest, especially if it
is a girl, is always likely to be the father's
pet ; or it may have been because she was a
very sweet and lovable child who drew all
hearts toward her as the sun draws the flow-
ers. When her mother took her to church on
Sunday morning, she slipped like a sunbeam
among the somber congregation, and all faces
brightened and a softer look stole into the eyes
of old and young, when she passed by. In her
quaint litUe poke-bonnet and her old-fashioned
gown, and with her chubby little hands folded
over her mother's h}'mn-book, she did, indeed,
look so bewitching that it seemed a hardship
not to stop and kiss her. "Bless the child,"

said the matrons, with heartfelt unction, when
her bright smile beamed upon them. " Bless
her dear little heart," ejaculated the young girls
admiringly, as they knelt down in the road to
pat Alvilda, to kiss her, or only to touch her
in passing.

When Alvilda's fifth birthday came it hap-
pened to be right in the middle of the berry
season ; and it was determined to celebrate it
by a berrying party to which a dozen children
of the neighborhood were invited. Fritz, Al-
vilda's fourteen-year-old brother, whom she
abjectly admired, magnanimously undertook the
duty of sending out the invitations ; and he con-
sulted his own sovereign fancy in inviting those
whom he liked and leaving out those who had
had the misfortune to incur his displeasure. It
was found when all the children gathered in
front of the parsonage, about nine o'clock in the
morning, that it was indeed Fritz's party rather
than Alvilda's. But Alvilda, who always thought
that whatever Fritz did was well done, was
perfectly content. She liked big boys, she said,
because they were not half the trouble that
little girls were. First, there was her brother
Charles, twelve years old, who was the proud
possessor of a drum which had been presented
to him at Christmas ; the judge's Albert, thirteen
years old, who was, to be sure, a great tease, and

* This story, or rather the principal incident in it, I heard as a child, and have an impression that it is found
in one of the Norwegian school-readers. I do not remember who is its author, if I ever knew ; but it is known to
every Norwegian child, and is a kind of classic of the Norse nursery. H. H. B.

130

LITTLE ALVILDA.

I". I

inclined to run off with Fritz on all sorts of mys-
terious errands ; and there was the lawyer's Fred-
erick, who never spoke to girls in public for
fear of being thought frivolous. Of girls there
were but two : Sophy, Alvilda's fifteen-year-old
sister, who was almost grown up, and carried
a novel in her pocket which she read at odd
moments in the garden, in the kitchen, and, most
of all, in the woods ; and Albert's sister, Inge-
borg, who had so many delightful secrets which
she would never share with anybody except her
bosom friend Sophy.

Fritz, who had provided himself with a tin
trumpet, marshaled his forces in the yard, and,
having aiTanged them in rank and file like sol-
diers, gave the command, " Forward, march! "

The girls followed as best they could ; the
two elder ones leading Alvilda by the hand be-
tween them. The father, who was reluctant to
send her into the woods, fearing that she might
become overtired, charged them not to leave her
for a moment, and to see that she had an oppor-
tunity to rest whene^■er she wished, all of which
Sophy and Ingeborg promised.

The weather was glorious : the sun was just
warm enough to be agreeable, and the light
clouds which sailed over the blue vault of the
sky seemed to be having a happy time of it.
The woods which grew in the rugged glens on
the slope of the mountain were filled with the
fragrance of birch and pine and lilies of the val-
ley ; and the brooks, swollen by the melting ice
of the glaciers, danced gayly down through the
ravines, with a constant, gurgling rush which fell
pleasantly upon the ear.

When the boys left the highway for the moun-
tain-paths, they broke ranks, and each scrambled
up over the rocks as best he could. It was in
vain that Fritz blew his trumpet and Charles
beat his drum. To climb the great moss-grown
rocks was too inviring ; and to stand on the top
of them and shout against the mountain wall,
which gave such a splendid echo, was a delight
which made the heart leap in one's bosom.
Fritz himself was not proof against such temp-
tations, and finding his commands ignored, he
gracefully surrendered his dignity and joined
with a will in the sports of the rest. There were
. squirrels to be stoned, — not a very nice sport, I
admit, — and later Fritz was ashamed of having

engaged in it. But there was much of the
savage about him when he found himself in
the woods, and he made it a point to act out
the character and suppress whatever gentle emo-
tions may have stirred in his bosom. Happily,
the squirrels were too nimble and alert for the
boys, and sat chattering at them from the upper
branches of the pines, where the stones, if they
reached at all, went wildly amiss. They then
found a toad, and would, I fear, have pitched it
heavenward from the end of a board, if the girls
with Alvilda had not caught up with them ; and
the latter, in consideration of its being her birth-
day, was gallantly permitted to save the con-
demned miscreant. For these boys, whoever
and whatever they were, were never themselves.
They were by turns robbers, pirates, medieval
knights, Norse vikings, everv'thing under the sun
they could think of, except nice, respectable
country boys, — sons, respectively, of a la-ivyer, a
judge, and a clergyman. A toad, in their hands,
became a captured merchant, or an enchanted
princess, or a thief condemned to death, as the
case might be. But it never by any possibihty
remained a toad.

When they had climbed for an hour, Alvilda
began to grow tired ; and Fritz, seeing that there
was no likeHhood of reaching the enchanted ter-
ritory he had in view, without carrying her, un-
dertook with the aid of his comrades to make
a litter of soft pine branches which was quite
comfortable to repose upon. The boys then
took turns carrying Alvilda, addressing her all
the while as the Princess Kunigunde, who was
betrothed to the King of Andalusia, and was
now being borne by her faithful knights to meet
her royal adorer. Alvilda laughed heartily at
their absurd deferential speeches ; and her clear
voice rang through the woods, startling now a
coveyof partridges which broke with a frightened
hum through the underbrush, now a hare which
scooted away with long leaps over the heather,
now a wild duck which, with a great flapping of
wings, darted away in a straight line over the
water, leaving its young in the lurch among the
sedges. But, although she found it ridiculous,
Alvilda enjoyed immensely being a princess and
having her devoted knights kiss her hand and
bend their knees when they spoke to her.

It was about eleven o'clock when the party

132

LITTLE ALVILDA.

IDec.

reached Fritz's berrying-grounds, which he had
discovered a few days ago, when on an expedi-
tion with Albert in search of adventures. It was
just then toward the end of the strawberry sea-
son and the beginning of the blueberry season.
The sweet wild strawberry, than which there is
nothing more delicious under the sun, betrayed
itself by its fragrance under the heather, and
when the boys found an open patch, about the
roots of a tree, where the berries grew in big
bunches, they shouted aloud and danced an
Indian war-dance from excess of joy, before
beginning to fill their mouths, their pails, and
their baskets. Fritz and Albert, who were the
champion pickers, had soon filled the tin pails
they had brought with them, and set to work
with great dispatch to make baskets of birch -
bark wherewith to carry off their surplus. There
were the great blueberry fields still to be ravaged ;
and it seemed a pity not to pick some of the
fragrant sweet-brier, and lilies of the valley that
grew so abundantly among the birches and
alders. Sophy and Ingeborg went into ecstasy
over the nodding clusters of pretty, bell-shaped
flowers which, in Norway, grow wild in the
woods, and they picked their aprons full, again
and again, emptying them into one of Fritz's
birch-bark baskets. Of sweet-brier, too, and
the delicate little wood-stars there was no lack ;
and in the open glades they found some belated
violets with a shy little ghost of a fragrance that
stole into one's nostrils as a kind thought steals
into the heart.

Fritz and his manly comrades protested, of
course, against this " tomfoolery " with the flow-
ers; but as some indulgence must be granted
to the foibles of girls, they consented to assist
in the undignified task. A big heap of varie-
gated color — pink, white, blue, and green —
was piled up under a large, wide-spreading
pine, where Alvilda sat, like a fairy queen, glory-
ing in her perishable treasures. It was then
Fritz lost his patience, and demanded to know
whether it was not time now to stop this non-
sense and go in quest of something worth
wearying one's limbs for. As he had brought
fishing tackle and bait, he would propose a
little fishing expedition on a tarn, close by, and
if the girls did n't care to accompany him,
he would go alone with his trusty friends.

Robin Hood and the Gray Friar, and catch
enough to provide luncheon for the whole
army. This proposition was too tempting to be
resisted, and presently all the boys scampered
away through the underbrush, leaving the three
girls under the pine tree. Sophy spread a shawl
upon the ground for Alvilda to lie down upon ;
and herself drew a favorite novel from her pocket,
which she discussed in whispers with Ingeborg.
There were, indeed, the most dehcious things in
this book : dreadful, black-hearted villains, with
black mustaches, who prowled about in all sorts
of disguises and lay in wait for unsuspecting
innocence ; splendid, high-spirited heroes, with
blonde mustaches and nodding white plumes on
tlieir helmets, who rescued guileless innocence
from the wiles of the villains, and subsequently
manied it — and no end of delightful things
besides. Sophy soon lost all thought of her sis-
ter during this absorbing discussion, and Alvilda,
finding herself neglected, pouted a little and
dozed away into a sweet sleep.

In the mean while the boys were having great
fun down on the tarn ; and being seized with a
ravenous appetite as their usual hour for
luncheon passed, they resolved to have a little
impromptu feast all by themselves before re-
turning to the girls. They had caught a dozen
fine trout and no end of perch, and their mouths
watered to test the flavor of the former on the
spot. They accordingly built an improvised
stove of flat stones, made a fire in it, split the
fish, and broiled them over the fire.

The trout in particular proved to have a superb
flavor, and Fritz, as a generous and magnanimous
freebooter, was dispensing the hospitality of the
woods with a royal hand. He forgot all about his
dear little sister in whose honor he was feasting,
and he forgot, too, that he had promised to return
in half an hour with his catch of fish. Sophy
and Ingeborg, having exliausted the delights
of the novel, began to grow hungr}', and -when an
hour had passed, they became impatient and, at
last, angry. They could hear the boys' shouts of
laughter in the distance, and they began to sus-
pect that the boys were lunching without them.
Now and then the blare of Fritz's trumpet was
vaguely audible, and the rumble of Charles's
drum.

" I really think, Ingeborg," said Sophy, " that

LITTLE ALVILDA.

those wretched boys have forgotten all about
us."

" I never could understand why boys were
created," observed Ingeborg.

'• ^^'ell, anyway, I am hungry," ejaculated
Sophy.

" And I am ravenous ! — that is, I am not
averse to something to eat," echoed her friend.

" Suppose we go and find those graceless
scamps," suggested Sophy.

" Very well ; but what shall we do with Al-
vilda ? "

Alvilda, — to be sure, — what were they to do
with her ? Sophy felt a little pang of guilt as
her eyes fell upon the sweet, chubby face of her
sleeping sister.

" She is sleeping so soundly. It would be a
pity to waken her," she remarked doubtfully.
" What do you say ? "

" Why, nothing can happen to her here,"
said Ingeborg; "we shall only be gone fifteen
minutes, you know, and then we shall be back
with the boys."

'• But suppose there were bears about here ;
then it might be dangerous to leave her ! "

" Yes, and suppose there were lions — and —
crocodiles," laughed Ingeborg.

This sally disposed of Sophy's scruples ; and
having thrown a jacket over Alvilda's feet and
kissed her on the cheek, she flung one arm
about her friend's waist and wandered away
with her in the direction from which the boys'
laughter was heard. It was not difficult to
find those young gentlemen, for they were en-
gaged in a lively wrangle as to which was the
rightful possessor of the surplus quantity of fish
which they could not devour. Fritz main-
tained that he, as the chieftain, had a just claim
to the proceeds of the labor of his vassals and
slaves, and the vassals and slaves loudly rebelled
and declared that they would never submit to
such injustice; whereupon the chieftain mag-
nanimously declared that he would renounce
his rights and surrender the booty to be divided
by lot among his men-at-arms. It was at this
interesting point that the girls appeared upon
the scene, and the gallant freebooters dropped
their quarrel and undertook, somewhat shame-
facedly, to wait upon their fair guests. And as
the fair guests had rather unfashionable appe-

tites, after their long fast and vigorous exercise,
the fifteen minutes became half an hour and
the half hour began to round itself out to a
whole hour, before their consciences smote them
and they thought of Alvilda who was asleep
under the big pine tree.

iVnd now let us see what befell little Alvilda.
She slept quietly for about twenty minutes after
her sister left her; and she would have slept
longer if something very extraordinary had not
happened. She was dreaming that the big
mastiff. Hector, at home in the parsonage, was
insisting upon kissing her, and she was struggling
to get away from his cold, wet nose, but could
not. A strange, wild odor was filling the air,
and it penetrated into Alvilda's dream and
made her toss uneasily. There was Hector
again, with his cold, wet nose, and he was blow-
ing his warm breath into her face. She tried
to scold him, but not a sound could she pro-
duce. In her annoyance she struck out with
her hand and hit something warm and furr)-.
But here consciousness broke through the filmy
webs of slumber ; she opened her eyes wide
and raised herself on her elbow. There stood
Hector, indeed, and stared straight into her
eyes. But how big he was ! And how his ears
had shrunk and his fur grown ! Alvilda rubbed
her eyes to make sure that she was awake. She
stared once more with a dim apprehension, and
saw, — yes, there could be no doubt of it, — she
saw that it was not Hector. It was an enor-
mous, big brown beast, that stood snuffing at
her; it was, perhaps, even a dangerous beast,
which might take it into its head to hurt her.
It was, — yes, now she was quite sure of it, — it
was a big brown bear !

The little girl's first impulse was to cry out
for help. But it was so strangely still about her.
Where were her brothers and sister, Fritz and
his freebooters, Sophy and her friend Ingeborg?
Itcouldnotbe possible that they had left heralone
here in the forest. She threw frightened glances
about her; but wherever she looked she saw
nothing but the long, solemn colonnades of
brown pine trunks. And there, right in front of
her, stood the bear, staring at her with his small
black eyes. It occurred to her, even amid
her fright, that she must try to make friends
with this bear, in which case, perhaps, he might

134

LITTLE ALVILDA.

[Dec.

consent not to eat her. She knew from her fairy-
tales that there were good bears and bad bears,
and she devoutly hoped that her new acquain-
tance might prove to belong to the order of good
bears. So, with a quaking heart and a voice that
shook, she arose, and putting her hand on the
bear's neck, she exclaimed with pathetic friend-
hness : " I know you very well, Mr. Bear, but
you don't know me. I know you from my
picture-book. You are the good bear who
carried the Princess on your back, away from
the Trold's castle."

The bear was apparently not displeased to
know that he had made so favorable an impres-
sion, though he wished to make it plain that he
could n't be bamboozled by flattery. For he
shook his great shaggy head and gave a low,
good-natured grumble. And just at that mo-
ment he caught sight of the big basket of straw-
berries that stood under the tree. And turning
toward it, he slowly lifted his right fore paw,
and, putting it straight into the basket, deliber-
ately upset it.

" Why, Bear, what have you been doing ? "
cried Alvilda, half forgetting her fear. "Why,
don't you know, those are Fritz's berries? — and
he will be so angry when he gets back. For
Fritz, you know, is quite high-tempered. Now,
if you '11 eat my berries, you may have them,
and welcome; but, dear Mr. Bear, do let Fritz's
alone."

It may be surmised that the bear was not
greatly moved by this argument. He calmly
went on eating Fritz's berries, which were scat-
tered all over the ground, and grumbled now
and then contentedly, as if to say that he found
the flavor of the berries excellent. He paid no
attention whatever to Alvilda's own little basket,
which she had placed invitingly before his
nose ; but, when he had finished Fritz's berries,
he selected the next biggest basket and upset
tliat in the same deliberate fashion in which he
had upturned the first one.

" Why, now, Mr. Bear, I don't think you are
good, after all," said Alvilda, when she saw her
friend make havoc among the berrj'-baskets.
" Don't you know you '11 get stomach-ache, if you
eat so many berries? — and then you '11 have to
go to bed in your den and take nasty medicine."

But, seeing that the bear was no more affected

by self-interest than he was by regard for other
people's property, Alvilda, in her zeal, put her
arms about his neck and tried to drag him away.
She found, however, that she was no match for
Bruin in strength, and therefore sorrowfully made
up her mind to abandon him to his own devices.
" Now, Bear," she said, seating herself again un-
der the tree, and quite forgetting that she had
once been frightened, "if you '11 behave your-
self, I am going to make you a pretty wreath of
flowers. Then, Mr. Bear, won't you look hand-
some when you get home to your family ? "

And, delighted at this vision of the bear return-
ing to his astonished family decorated with a
wreath, she clapped her hands, emptied a basket
of wild flowers in her lap, and began to tie them
together. Lilies of the valley, she feared. Bruin
would scarcely appreciate ; but brier-roses, vio-
lets, and columbines, she thought, would not be
beyond his taste; and adding here and there a
sprig of whortleberries and of flowering heather
to give solidity to her wreath, she tied it securely
about the bear's neck and laughed aloud with
joy at his appearance. Bruin had obviously a
notion that this was a kindly act, for he suddenly
rose up on his hind legs and with a pleased
grumble made an attempt to look at himself.

"Oh, my dear Bruin," cried Alvilda, "you
look perfectly lovely ! Your family won't recog-
nize you when they see you again."

The bear lifted up his head and, as his eyes
met Alvilda's, there was a gleam in them of mild
astonishment, and, as the little girl imagined, of
gratitude. She laughed and talked on merrily
for some minutes, while her friend sat down on
his haunches and continued to gaze at her with
the same stolid wonder. But then, suddenly,
while Alvilda was making another wreath for
Bruin to take home to his wife, the blare of
a trumpet re-echoed through the woods, and
laughing voices were heard approaching. The
bear pricked up his ears, sniffed the air suspi-
ciously, and waddled slowly away between the
tree trunks.

- " Why, no. Bear," Alvilda cried after him ;
" why don't you stay and meet Fritz and Sophy
and the judge's Albert ? "

But the bear, instead of returning, broke into
a gentle trot, and she heard the dry branches
creak beneath his tread as he vanished in the

LITTLE ALVILDA.

' JD

underbrush. And just as she lost the last glimpse
of him, Fritz and Sophy and the whole party of
children came rushing up to her, excusing them-
selves for their absence, calling her all manner
of pet names, and saying that they had hoped
she had not been frightened. " Oh, no, not at
all," answered Alvilda ; " I have had such a
nice bear here, who has kept me compan}'. But
I am so sorry he has eaten up all your berries."

The children thought at first that she must be
joking; but seeing all the baskets upset, and
smelling the strong, wild odor that was yet linger-
ing in the air, they turned pale and stood gazing
at each other in speechless fright. But Sophy
burst into tears, hugged her little sister to her
bosom, and cried :

" Oh, how can you ever forgive me, Alvilda ?
It is all my fault ! I promised Papa not to
leave you."

It was of no use that Alvilda kept repeating :
" But, Sophy, he was not a bad bear. He was
a nice bear, and he did n't hurt me at all."

There could be no more berrying after that.
The girls were in haste to be gone, and the val-
iant freebooters had no desire to detain them.
They picked up their belongings as fast as they
could and hurried down through the forest, each
taking his turn, as before, in carrying Alvilda.
But they were neither knights nor princesses nor
freebooters any more. They were only fright-
ened boys and girls.

When they arri\ed at the parsonage about
five o'clock in the afternoon, they were too tired,
breathless, and demoralized to care much what
became of them. Sophy took upon herself to
tell her father what had happened. She was
prepared for the worst, and in her remorse would
have accepted cheerfully any punishment. But
imagine her astonishment when her father ut-
tered no word of reproach but folded Alvilda
in his arms and thanked God that he had his
little girl once more safe and sound.

Now, if my story had ended here, nobody
would have been astonished ; but the most as-
tonishing part of it is what remains to be told.
Six months after Alvilda's encounter with the

good bear, when a foot of snow covered the
ground, two of the parson's lumbermen, who
were famous hunters, returned from a week's so-
journ in the woods. Fritz, Albert, and Alvilda,
bundled up to their ears in scarfs and overcoats,
were sliding down the hill behind the stables,
when they saw the two lumbermen, sitting
astride of some big, dark object, coasting down
toward them. " Hurrah ! " cried Fritz, waving
his cap to them, " there are Nils and Thorsten !
And they have killed something too."

Nils and Thorsten, returning the greeting of
the young master, slackened their speed and
stopped beside the children. It was a big, brown
he-bear they had on their sled — a regular
monster; and they were not a little proud of
having killed him. His tongue was hanging
out of his mouth, and there was a small hole in
his breast from which the blood was trickling
down on the snow.

"Je-miny," exclaimed Fritz admiringly, plun-
ging his fist into the beast's dense fur, " ain't he
a stunner ? But what is this ? — I declare if he
has n't a wreath of withered flowers about his
neck ! "

Alvilda, who had timidly drawn near, started
forward at these words and, letting her sled go,
stared at the dead animal.

" Why, it is my bear ! " she cried, bursting into
tears, " it is my dear, good bear ! "

And before any one could prevent her, she
had flung her arms about the bear's neck and
buried her face in his fur; and there she lay
weeping as if her heart would break.

" Oh, they have been bad to you," she sobbed ;
" and you were so good to me ; and you have
worn my wreath all this time."

The two hunters pulled the sled down into
the court-yard, Alvilda still weeping over her
dead playmate. And when her father came
out and hfted her up in his arms, she yet re-
mained inconsolable, lamenting the fate of her
good bear. But from the animal's neck the
pastor cut the withered wreath, and it hangs
now on the wall in Alvilda's room as a memento
of her ursine friend and the love she bore him.

^^"^'4 :»& o.l)f^-

^HEN Independence
was declared, in 1776,
and the United States
of America appeared
among the powers of
the earth, the con-
tinent beyond the
Alleghanies was one
unbroken wilderness ;
and the buffaloes, the
first animals to vanish
when the wilderness
is settled, roved up to
the crests of the mountains which mark the
western boundaries of Pennsylvania, Virginia,
and the Carolinas. They were plentiful in
what are now the States of Ohio, Kentucky,
and Tennessee. But by the beginning of the
present century they had been driven beyond
the Mississippi; and for the next eighty years
they formed one of the most distinctive and
characteristic features of existence on the great
plains. Their numbers were countless — incred-
ible. In vast herds of hundreds of thousands of
individuals, they roamed from the Saskatchewan
to the Rio Grande and westward to the Rocky
Mountains. They furnished all the means of
livelihood to the tribes of Horse Indians, and
to the curious population of French Metis, or
Half-breeds, on the Red River, as well as those
dauntless and archtypical wanderers, the white
hunters and trappers. Their numbers slowly
diminished ; but the decrease was very gradual
until after the Civil War. They were not de-
stro)'ed by the settlers, but by the railways and
by the skin hunters.

After the ending of the Ci\'il War, the work of
constructing transcontinental railway lines was

pushed forward with the utmost vigor. These
supplied cheap and indispensable, but hitherto
wholly lacking, means of transportation to the
hunters ; and at the same time the demand for
buffalo robes and hides became very great,
while the enormous numbers of the beasts, and
the comparative ease with which they were
slaughtered, attracted throngs of adventurers.
The result was such a slaughter of big game as
the world had never before seen ; never before
were so many large animals of one species de-
stroyed in so short a time. Several million buf-
faloes were slain. In fifteen years from the
time the destruction fairly began, the great
herds were exterminated. In all probability
there are not now, all told, a thousand head of
•\vild buffaloes on the American continent ; and
no herd of a hundred individuals has been in
existence since 1884.

The first great break followed the building of
the Union Pacific Railway. All the buffaloes
of the middle region were then destroyed, and
the others were then spht into two vast sets of
herds, the northern and the southern. The
latter were destroyed first, about 1878; the
former not until 1883. My own experience
with buffaloes was obtained in the latter )'ear,
among small bands and scattered individuals,
near my ranch on the Little Missouri ; I have
related it elsewhere. But two of my relatives
were more fortunate, and took part in the chase
of these lordly beasts when the herds still dark-
ened the prairie as far as the eye could see.

During the first two months of 1877, my
brother Elliott, then a lad not seventeen years
old, made a buffalo-hunt toward the edge of
the Staked Plains in northern Texas. He was
thus in at the death of the southern herds, for

136

BUFFALO-HUNTING.

all, save a few scattering bands, were destroyed
within two years of this time.
- My brother was with my cousin, John Roose-
velt, and they went out on the range with six
other adventurers — a German- American, a
Scotchman who had been in the Confederate
cavalry and afterward in Maximilian's Mexican
body-guard, and four Irishmen. It was a party
of just such young men as frequently drift to the
frontier. All were short of cash, and all were
hardy, vigorous fellows eager for excitement
and adventure. My brother was much the
youngest of the party, and the least experi-
enced ; but he was well-grown, strong and
healthy, and very fond of boxing, wrestling, run-
ning, riding, and shooting ; moreover, he had
served an apprenticeship in hunting deer and
turkeys. Their mess-kit, ammunition, bedding,
and provisions were carried in two prairie
wagons, each drawn by four horses. In addirion
to the teams they had six saddle-animals — all
of them shaggy, unkempt mustangs. Three or
four dogs, setters and half-bred greyhounds,
trotted along behind the wagons. Each man
took his turn for two days as teamster and cook ;
and there were always two with the wagons,
or camp, as the case might be, while the other
six were off hunting, usually in couples. The
expedition was undertaken partly for sport and
parti)- with the hope of profit ; for, after pur-
chasing the horses and wagons, none of the
party had any money left, and they were forced
to rely upon selling skins and hides and, when
near the forts, meat.

They started on January 2d, and shaped their
course for the head-waters of the Salt Fork of
the Brazos, the center of abundance for the
great buffalo herds. During the first few days
they were in the outskirts of the settled country,
and shot only small game — quail and prairie
fowl ; then they began to kill turkey, deer, and
antelope. These they " swapped " for flour and
feed, at the ranches or squalid, straggling fron-
tier towns. On several occasions the hunters
were lost, spending the night out in the open, or
sleeping at a ranch if one was found. Both
towns and ranches were filled with rough cus-
tomers; all of my brother's companions were
muscular, hot-headed fellows ; and as a con-
sequence they were involved in several savage
Vol. XVII.— 17.

" free fights," in which, fortunately, nobody was
seriously hurt. My brother kept a very brief
diary, the entries being fairly startling from their
conciseness. A number of times, the mention
of their arrival, either at a halting-place, a little
village, or a rival buffalo-camp is followed by
the laconic remark, " big fight," or " big row " ;
but once they evidently concluded discretion to
be the better part of valor, the entry for January
20th being, " On the road — passed through Bel-
knap— too lively, so kept on to the Brazos —
very late." The buffalo-camps in particular
were very jealous of one another, each party
regarding itself as having exclusive right to the
range it was the first to find ; and on several
occasions this feeling came near involving my
brother and his companions in serious trouble.

While slowly driving the heavy wagons to
the hunting-grounds they suffered the usual
hardships of plains travel. The weather, as in
most Texas winters, alternated between the ex-
tremes of heat and cold. There had been little
rain ; in consequence water was scarce. Twice
they were forced to cross ^vild, barren wastes,
where the pools had dried up, and they suffered
terribly from thirst. On the first occasion the
horses were in good condition, and they traveled
steadily, with only occasional short halts, for over
thirty-six hours, by which time they were across
the waterless country. The journal reads : "Jan-
uar)' 29th. — Big hunt — no water and we left
Quinn's blockhouse this morning 3 a. m. —
on the go all night — hot. January 28th. — No
water — hot — at seven we struck water and by
eight Stinking Creek — grand 'hurrah.'" On
the second occasion, the horses were weak and
traveled slowly, so the party went forty-eight
hours without drinking. " February 19th. — Pulled
on twenty-one miles — trail bad — freezing night,
no water, and wolves after our fresh meat. 20th.
— Made nineteen miles over prairie ; again only
mud, no water, freezing hard — frightful thirst.
2ist. — Thirty miles to Clear Fork, fresh water."
These entries were hurriedly jotted down at the
time, by a boy who deemed it unmanly to make
any especial note of hardship or suffering ; but
every plainsman will understand the real agony
implied in working hard for two nights, one day,
and portions of two others, w ithout water, even
in cool weather. During the last few miles the

138

BUFFALO- HUNTING.

[Dec.

Staggering horses were only just able to drag
the lightly loaded wagon, — for they had but
one with them at the time, — while the men
plodded along in sullen silence, their mouths
so parched that they could hardly utter a word.
My own hunting and ranching were done in the
North where there is more water ; so I have
never had a similar experience. Once I took
a team in thirty-six hours across a country
where there was no water; but by good luck it
rained heavily in the night, so that the horses
had plenty of wet grass, and I caught the rain
in my slicker, and so had enough water for my-
self. Personally, I have but once been as long
as twenty-six hours without water.

The party pitched their permanent camp in a
caiion of the Brazos known as Canon Blanco.
The last few days of their journey they traveled
beside the river through a veritable hunter's
paradise. The drought had forced all the ani-
mals to come to the larger watercourses, and
the country was literally swarming with game.
Every day, and all day long, the wagons trav-
eled through the herds of antelopes that grazed
on every side, while, whenever they approached
the caiion brink, bands of deer started from
the timber that fringed the river's course ; often,
even the deer wandered out on the prairie with
the antelopes. Nor was the game shy ; for the
hunters, both red and white, followed only the
buffaloes until the huge, shaggy herds were de-
stroyed, and the smaller beasts were in conse-
quence but little molested.

Once my brother shot five antelopes from a
single stand, when the party were short of fresh
venison ; he was out of sight and to leeward,
and the antelopes seemed confused rather than
alarmed at the rifle-reports and the fall of their
companions. As was to be expected where game
was so plenty, wolves and coyotes also abounded.
At night they surrounded the camp, wailing and
howling in a kind of shrieking chorus through-
out the hours of darkness ; one night they came
up so close that the frightened horses had to be
hobbled and guarded. On another occasion a
large wolf actually crept into camp, where he
was seized by the dogs, and the yelling, writh-
ing knot of combatants rolled over one of the
sleepers ; finally, the long-toothed prowler man-
aged to shake himself loose, and vanished in the

gloom. One evening they were almost as much
startled by a visit of a different kind. I'hey were
just finishing supper when an Indian stalked
suddenly and silently out of the surrounding
darkness, squatted down in the circle of fire-
light, remarked gravely, " Me Tonk," and began
helping himself from the stew. He belonged to
the friendly tribe of Tonkaways, so his hosts
speedily recovered their equanimity ; as for him,
he had never lost his, and he sat eating by the
fire until there was literally nothing left to eat.
The panic caused by his appearance was natural ;
for at that time the Comanches were a scourge
to the buffalo-hunters, ambushing them and
raiding their camps ; and several bloody fights
had taken place.

Their camp had been pitched near a deep
pool or water-hole. On both sides the bluffs
rose like walls, and where they had crumbled
and lost their sheerness, the vast buffalo herds,
passing and repassing for countless genera-
tions, had worn furrowed trails so deep that
the backs of the beasts were but little above
the surrounding soil. In the bottom, and in
places along the crests of the cliffs that hemmed
in the cahon-like valley, there were groves of
tangled trees, tenanted by great flocks of wild
turkeys. Once my brother made two really
remarkable shots at a pair of these great birds.
It was at dusk, and they were flying directly
overhead from one cliff' to the other. He had
in his hand a thirty-eight-caliber Ballard rifle,
and, as the gobblers winged their way heavily
by, he brought them both down with two suc-
cessive bullets. This was of course mainly a
piece of mere luck ; but it meant good shooting,
too. The Ballard was a very accurate, handy
little weapon ; it belonged to me, and was the
first rifle I ever owned or used. With it I had
once killed a deer, the only specimen of large
game I had then shot ; and I presented the
rifle to my brother when he went to Texas. In
our happy ignorance we deemed it quite good
enough for buffalo or anything else ; but out on
the plains my brother soon found himself forced
to procure a heavier and more deadly weapon.

When camp was pitched the horses were
turned loose to graze and refresh themselves
after their trying journey, during which they
had lost flesh wofully. They were watched

iSSg ]

BUFFALO-HUNTING.

139

and tended by the two men who were always
left in camp, and, save on rare occasions, were
only used to haul in the buffalo-hides. The
camp-guards for the time being acted as cooks ;
and, though coffee and flour both ran short
and finally gave out, fresh meat of every kind
was abundant. The camp was never without
buffalo-beef, deer and antelope venison, wild
turkeys, prairie-chickens, quails, ducks, and rab-
bits. The birds were simply " potted," as occa-
sion required ; when the quarry was deer or
antelope, the hunters took the dogs with them
to run down the wounded animals. But almost
the entire attention of the hunters was given
to the buffalo. After an evening spent in loung-
ing round the camp-fire, and a sound night's
sleep, wrapped in robes and blankets, they
w-ould get up before daybreak, snatch a hurried
breakfast, and start off in couples through the
chilly dawn. The great beasts were very plenti-
ful ; in the first day's hunt, twenty were slain ;
but the herds were restless and e\"er on the
move. Sometimes they would be seen right by
the camp, and again it would need an all-day's
tramp to find them. There was no difliculty in
spying them — the chief trouble with forest
game ; for on the prairie a buffalo makes no
effort to hide, and its black, shaggy bulk looms
up as far as the eye can see. Sometimes, they
were found in small parties of three or four
individuals, sometimes in bands of about two
hundred, and again in great herds of many
thousand ; and solitary old bulls, expelled from
the herds, were common If on broken land,
among hills and ravines, there was not much
difficulty in approaching from the leeward ; for,
though the sense of smell in the buffalo is very
acute, they do not see w'ell at a distance through
their overhanging frontlets of coarse and matted
hair. If, as was generally the case, they were
out on the open, rolling prairie, the stalking was
far more difficult. Every hollow, every earth
hummock and sagebush had to be used as
cover. The hunter wriggled through the grass
flat on his face, pushing himself along for per-
haps a quarter of a mile by his toes and fingers,
heedless of the spiny cactus. When near enough
to the huge, unconscious quarry the hunter
began firing, still keeping himself carefully con-
cealed. ]( the smoke was blown awav by the

wind, and if the buffaloes caught no glimpse of
the assailant, they w-ould often stand motionless
and stupid until many of their number had been
slain ; the hunter being careful not to fire too
high, aiming just behind the shoulder, about a
third of the way up the body, that his bullet might
go through the lungs. Sometimes, even after
they saw the man, they would act as if confused
and panic-struck, huddling up together and
staring at the smoke puft's — but generally they
were oft" at a lumbering gallop as soon as they
had an idea of the point of danger. When
once started, they ran for many miles before
halting, and their pursuit on foot was extremely
laborious.

One morning my cousin and brother had
been left in camp as guards. They were sitting,
idly warming themselves in the first sunbeams,
when their attention was sharply drawn to four
buffaloes who were coming to the pool to drink.
The beasts came down a game trail, a deep vut
in the bluft", fronting where they were sitting, and
they did not dare stir for fear of being discov-
ered. The buffaloes walked into the pool, and,
after drinking their fill, stood for some time with
the water running out of their mouths, idly lash-
ing their sides with their short tails, enjoying the
bright warmth of the early sunshine ; then, with
much splashing and the gurgling of soft mud,
they left the pool and clambered up the bluff
with unwieldy agilit)'. As soon as they turned,
my brother and cousin ran for their rifles ; but
before they got back the buftaloes had crossed
the bluff crest. Climbing after them, the two
hunters found, when they reached the sum-
mit, that their game, instead of halting, had
struck straight oft' across the prairie at a slow-
lope, doubdess intending to rejoin the herd they
had left. After a moment's consultation, the
men went in pursuit, excitement overcoming
their knowledge that they ought not, by rights,
to leave the camp. They struck a steady trot,
following the animals by sight until they passed
over a knoll, and then trailing them. Where
the grass was long, as it was for the first four or
five miles, this was a work of no difliculty, and
thev did not break their gait, only glancing now
and then at the trail. As the sun rose and the
day became warm, their breathing grew quicker;
and the sweat rolled oft' their faces as thev ran

140

BUFFALO- HUNTING.

[Dec.

across the rough prairie sward, u\) and down the
long inclines, now and then shifting their heavy
rifles from one shoulder to the other. But they
were in good training, and they did not have
to halt. At last they reached stretches of bare

THE\ W KKL I.\

L UD Il.Al.M.'.U, .\Mj

THbV Dill

ground, sun-baked and grassles.s, where the trail
grew dim ; and here they had to go very slowly,
carefully e.xaniining the faint dents and marks
made in the soil by the heavy hoofs, and unrav-
eling the trail from the mass of old foot-marks.
It was tedious work, but it enabled them to
completely recover their breath by the time that
they again struck the grass land ; and but a
few hundred yards from its edge, in a slight hol-
low, they saw the four buffaloes just entering a
herd of fifty or si.xty that were scattered out
grazing. The herd paid no attention to the new-
comers, and these immediately began to feed
greedily. After a whispered consultation, the
two hunters crept back, and made a long circle
that brought them well to leeward of the herd,
in line with a slight rise in the ground. They
then crawled up to this rise and. peering through
the tufts of tall, rank grass, saw the unconscious
.beasts a hundred and twenty-five or fifty yards
away. They fired together, each mortally wound-
ing his animal, and then, rushing in as the herd
halted in confusion, and following them as they
ran, impeded bv numbers, hurry, and panic,
they eventually got three more.

On another occasion, the same two hunters
nearly met with a frightful death, being over-

taken by a vast herd of stampeded buffaloes. All
animals that go in herds are subject to these
instantaneous attacks of uncontrollable terror,
under the influence of which they become per-
fectly mad, and rush headlong in dense masses
on any form of death.
Horses, and more
especially cattle, often
suffer from stampedes ;
it is a danger against
which the cowboys
are compelled to be
|ierpetually on guard.
A band of stampeded
horses, sweeping in
mad terror up a val-
ley, will dash against
a rock or tree with
such violence as to
leave several dead ani-
mals at its base, while
the survivors race on
■' ""'^ '" "■'"-'■' without halting ; they

will overturn and destroy tents and wagons, and
a man on foot caught in the rush has but a small
chance for his life. A buffalo stampede is much
worse — or rather was much worse, in the old
days — because of the great weight and im-
mense numbers of the beasts, who, in a fury
of heedless terror, plunged over cliffs and into
rivers, and bore down whatever was in tlieir
path. On the occasion in question, my brother
and cousin were on their way homeward. They
were just mounting one of the long, low swells
into which the prairie was broken when they
heard a low, muttering, rumbling noise, like
far-off thunder. It grew steadily louder, and,
not knowing what it meant, they hurried for-
ward to the top of the rise. .\s they reached it,
they stopped short in terror and amazement, for
before them the whole jjrairie was black with
madly rushing buffaloes.

Afterward they learned that another couple
of hunters, four or five miles off, had fired into
and stampeded a large herd. This herd, in its
rush, gathered others, all thundering along to-
gether in uncontrollable and increasing panic.
The surprised hunters were far away from
any broken ground or other place of refuge ;
while the vast herd of huge, plunging, maddened

.889]

BUFFALO-HUNTING.

141

beasts was charging straight down on them not
a quarter of a rtule distant. Down they came ! —
thousands upon thousands, their front extending
a mile in breadth, while the earth shook beneath
their thunderous gallop, and as they came
closer, their shaggy frontlets loomed dimly
through the columns of dust thrown up from
the drj' soil. The two hunters knew that their
only hope for life was to split the herd, which,
though it had so broad a front, was not ver)-
deep. If they failed they would ine^dtably be
trampled to death.

Waiting until the beasts were in close range,
they opened a rapid fire from their heavy
breech-loading rifles, yelling at the top of their
voices. For a moment the result seemed doubt-
fill. The line thundered steadily down on them ;

from their foes in front, strove desperately to
edge away from the dangerous neighborhood;
the shouts and shots were redoubled ; the hunt-
ers were almost choked by the cloud of dust
through which they could see the stream of dark
huge bodies passing within rifle-length on either
side ; and in a moment the peril was over, and
the two men were left alone on the plain,
unharmed, though with their nerves terribly
shaken. The herd careered on toward the
horizon, save five indi\iduals who had been
killed or disabled by the shots.

On another occasion, when my brother was
out with one of his Irish friends, they fired at
a small herd containing an old bull ; the bull
charged the smoke, and the whole herd followed
him. Probably they were simply stampeded,

A THRILLING EXPERIENCE OF LIFE O.N THE PUAINS.

then it swayed violently, as two or three of the
brutes immediately in their front fell beneath the
bullets, while the neighbors made \-iolent efforts
to press off sideways. Then a narrow wedge-
shaped rift appeared in the line, and widened
as it came up closer, and the buffaloes, shrinking

•splitting a HERD OF STAMPEDED BLFFALOES.

and had no hostile intention ; at any rate, after
the death of their leader, they rushed by without
doing any damage.

But buffaloes sometimes charged with the
utmost determination, and were then dangerous
antagonists. My cousin, a ver\- hardy and

H-

BUFFALO-HU.NTING.

(Dec.

HIDES AFTtK A HINT.

resolute hunter, had a narrow escape from a
wounded cow which he followed up a steep
bluff or sand clifi". Just as he reached the sum-
mit, he was charged, and was only saved by the
sudden appearance of his dog, which distracted

THE GREAT BEAST CAME CRASHING TO THE EARTH,

the cow's attention. He thus escaped with onlv
a tumble and a few bruises.

My brother also came in for a charge, while
killing the biggest bull that was slain bv anv of

the party. He was out alone, and saw a small
herd of cows and calves at some distance, with
a huge bull among them, towering above them
like a giant. There was
no break in the ground,
nor any tree nor bush
near them, but by mak-
ing a half-circle, my
brother managed to
creep up against the
\\ind behind a slight
roll in the prairie sur-
face, until he was ■within
seventy-five yards of the
grazing and unconsci-
ous beasts. There were
some cows and calves
between him and the
bull, and he had to wait
some moments before
they shifted position as
the herd grazed onward
and gave him a fair shot;
in the interval they had
moved so far forward that he was in plain
view. His first bullet struck just behind the
shoulder ; the herd started and looked around,
but the bull merelv lifted his head and took a

BUFFALO- HUNTING.

i:^SSailJB^!fl.yj=i

aj^^■^JKvuj.^^^^^^^^^^^^/^P^:^Tz;^J:-^-J

A WAR PARTY OF COMANCHES

A HL'NTER S CAMP.

Step forward, his tail curled up over his back.
The next bullet likewise struck fair, nearly in
the same place, telling with a loud " pack ! "
against the thick hide, and making the dust fly
up from the matted hair. Instantly the great
bull wheeled and charged in headlong anger,
while the herd fled in the opposite direction.
On the bare prairie, with no spot of refuge, it
was useless to try to escape, and the hunter,
with reloaded rifle, waited until the bull w'as
not far off", then drew up his weapon and fired.
Either he was nervous, or the bull at the moment
bounded over some obstacle, for the ball went
a little wild ; nevertheless, by good luck, it broke
a fore leg, and the great beast came crashing to
the earth, and was slain before it could struggle
to its feet.

Two days after this event, a war
party of Comanches swept down
along the river. They "jumped"

a neighboring camp, killing one man and wound-
ing two more, and at the same time ran off all
but three of the horses belonging to our eight
adventurers. With the remaining three horses
and one wagon they set out homeward. The
march was hard and tedious; they lost their
way and were in jeo])ardy from quicksands
and cloudbursts ; they suffered from thirst and
cold, their shoes gave out and their feet were
lamed by cactus spines. At last they reached
Fort Sniffin in safety, and great was their raven-
ous rejoicing when they procured some bread
— for during the final fortnight of the hunt they
had been without flour or vegetables of any kind,
or even coftee, and had subsisted on fresh meat
" straight." Nevertheless, it was a very healthy,
as well as a very pleasant and exciting experi-
ence ; and I doubt if any of those who took
part in it will ever forget their great buffalo-hunt
on the Brazos.

nAY BARTLETTS

'AS

5;£,,j|^STEPM0THER^^^j^

•^^//■'_ BY NORA PERRY 'Xxdl'S'^

^-yfff[ m

Chapter I.

" A STEPMOTHER ? How liomd I "

" Horrid ! — I should think so."

'■ What is it that is horrid, girls ? " asked an-
other girl, who, in passing, had caught only the
last sentence.

" Why, about May Bartlett, you know."

" No, I don't know ; what is it ? "

" She has a stepmother."

'^ No ! "

" Yes, yes," cried the first two speakers, — the
Macy sisters, — Joanna and Elsie.

" But when, when did it happen, this step-
mother business ? " exclaimed the girl to whom
they were telling the news. " I saw May in
vacation, and she did n't lisp a w^ord of it."

" But you have n't seen her since you came
back ? " '

" Well, no; as this is my first //<?/■/■;■ back, almost.
But tell me when the stepmother was brought
on the scene ? "

" A week ago : that is, Mr. Bardett was mar-

ried to her then ; but he has n't brought her
home yet; they are traveling."

" Who told you ? "

" Mrs. Marks, the housekeeper. I went round
yesterday to see if May was at home."

" And you saw May ? "

"No; she was n't expected until the late
afternoon train."

" And she did n't know anything about the
stepmother until a week ago ? "

"Two weeks ago; a week before the marriage."

" Well, I call that downright cruel. If it was
my father 1 " And Cathy Bond stamped a little
foot on the floor with an emphasis that spoke
unutterable things. Two or three more girls
who had just entered the school-room came up
at this demonstration with a " What 's the matter,
Cathy ? " And the matter was told over again
with a new chorus of " ohs " and " ahs " and
'• poor Mays." There was only one disagreeing
voice — a soft little voice that broke into the
" ohs " and " ahs," saving : " Stepmothers are
verv nice sometimes. I have a cousin — "

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

145

" Nice!" cried Cathy, and then directly went
off in a flow of wild talk, a string of stories all
going to show that stepmothers were anything
but nice.

At the first hint of a pause, the little soft voice
began again :

" I have a cousin — " but Cathy had mounted
her hobby-horse of prejudice, and flashed out:

" Oh, bother your cousin, Susy Morris; I know
two girls intiiitately, who have stepmothers, and
they can't do anything, not anything, they want
to do ! "

"Who, the stepmothers?" asked Joanna
slyly.

" No ; the girls, of course," answered Cathy
rather crossly ; " and they used to have every-
thing, and do just exactly as they pleased. Oh,
you need n't talk to me about stepmothers ; they
interfere between the fathers and children, and
are a meddling, selfish set."

As Cathy paused to take breath, Susy promptly
struck in with, " I have a cousin — " But a
shout of laughter interrupted, and Joanna Macy
repeated, with merry mockery," I have a cousin";
then, turning and clutching Susy in a swift em-
brace, she cried out :

" Oh, you dear, queer, funny little thing with
your running chorus, ' I have a cousin.' But
tell us about her ; come, Susy has the floor —
Susy 's going to tell us about the cou.sin. If
Cathy interrupts, we '11 put her out. Now, Su.sy,
begin — ' I have a cousin.' "

Susy blushed a little, but without any sign of
annoyance unhesitatingly took up the words,
" I have a cousin," and went on with her
story.

It was a sweet little story of kindness and
comfort and happiness brought into a lonely
home to a lonely child, by a sweet, kind, good
woman.

But it did not make the impression it ought
to have made upon the girl listeners, for Cathy's
stormy talk of injustice and cruelty had blown
into their minds a tangle of wild thoughts, just
as a storm in nature blows all the wild weeds
and sticks and stones into a tangle of dust and
dirt that confuses and blinds one.

Susy, who appeared so slow and placid, had a
keen perception of some things. Her mind was
like a Httle clear lake through which she seemed
Vol. XVII.— 18.

to look and see the truth. Through this clear
little lake she now looked and saw that not one
of these girls, not even Joanna whom she spe-
cially loved, received her story with much belief.
It was not that they thought she was willfully
telling what was not true, but they were saying
to themselves :

" Oh, that is only Susy's easy, pleasant way of
taking people. Susy does n't understand." But
Susy did understand more than they imagined,
and it was out of this understanding that she
started up suddenly with a quicker motion than
was common with her, and in a quicker tone
cried out :

" My father says that prejudice makes people
deaf and blind." She paused a second, gave a
short sigh, and dropping into her ordinary man-
ner, and in her little, soft, drawling voice, she
added, " If 't would only make 'em dumb 't
would be all right."

The girls were used to Susy's wise speeches,
spoken in that soft voice of hers, and with a curi-
ous twist to the letter r, which she could n't pro-
nounce without giving to it a half sound of w,
and they generally laughed, not at the speeches
alone, but at the quaint combination of the
speeches and Susy together. As a matter of
habit they laughed now, but Joanna had caught
the spirit of the speech, and she followed the
laugh by saying :

" Susy is right ; prejudice does make us deaf
and blind, and it is a pity we could n't be dumb
too, instead of talking such stuff! What do 7ue
know really about stepmothers ? "

" We know what everybody has always said,"
struck in Cathy.

" Everybody is always saying everything."

" But there are the Longley girls — my two
friends I told you of."

" And there is Susy's cousin that 's the other
side. I '11 set that against the Longlegs, or what-
ever is their name."

" Well, I sha'n't. I shall never beheve in step-
mothers ; I know — "

A quick "hush" from Joanna arrested Cathy's
sentence. She looked up. They all looked up,
and there was May Bardett, not three feet away !
How long had she been there ? How much had
she heard ? Perhaps she had just come in and
had heard nothing. But she was standing at her

146

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Dec.

desk, and her books were unstrapped and set in
order. She must have heard something in this
time. Joanna could have stamped with vex-
ation at herself, and at the others. Oh, why,
why, had she — had they all — been so careless ?
But something must be done. Somebody must
go forward and speak as if nothing had hap-
pened. Joanna started on this errand, but
Cathy was before her, and in the next moment,
flinging her arms about May, was saying in an
impressive, pitying accent :

" Oh, May, we have heard all about it, and
we are so sorry."

May Bartlett was a proud girl, who generally
held her private aftairs in a good deal of reserve,
but this sudden demonstration at this time was
too much for her self-control, and she burst into
tears. Joanna could have beaten Cathy. Why
could n't she have greeted May as if nothing
had happened ? But that was just like Cathy
to make a scene.

The girls came forward awkwardly after this,
and there was a general uncomfortable time,
until Susy suddenly burst out in her odd litde
way:

" Oh, May 's got a straight bang ! "

The girls giggled, Joanna caught Susy in a
little hug, and the tragic atmosphere was re-
lieved.

Chapter II.

A WEEK, later. May Bartlett was standing at
the parlor window waiting for her father and his
new wife, her stepmother.

"Why don't you go to the depot to meet
them?" asked Mrs. Marks.

May had colored up angrily at this question,
and a hot rush of tears had blinded her eyes as
she turned away without answering. But it was a
natural question for Mrs. Marks to ask, for May
had been in the habit of meeting her father at
the pretty little suburban station almost every
afternoon on his return from the city. " But
meet t/tein at the depot! How could Mrs.
Marks speak of such a thing," the girl thought
indignantly.

Tick, tack, tick, tack, went the litrie cathedral
clock on the mantel. In fifteen minutes the
train would be in, and in five, ten minutes more
the carriage would be at the door, and then —

and then — the tears that May had tried to keep
under control suddenly overflowed, as she im-
agined the change that was coming. Eight
weeks ago, when she had gone away with her
Aunt Mary to the sea-shore to spend her vaca-
tion. May had planned what she would do in
the autumn. In the first place she would have
a party — a garden-party, for September was a
lovely month at Hillside, and her father had
promised her a garden-party ever since they
had taken possession of their new house there,
three years ago. She would invite all the girls
of her set at the Hillside seminary, and as many
of her friends in town — and by "town" she
meant Boston, which was only six miles away
— as had returned from their summer jaunts.
Then she would persuade her father to buy her
a village wagon. She could drive very well, as
he himself had said, and she could bring him
from the station quite as well in a village wagon
as in the shabby old phaeton which she \vas per-
mitted to use, when Patrick was too busy to go
with the dog-cart. Yes, a party and a dear little
duck of a wagon like Marion Grant's, and then,
and then, — but at this point of her recollection
her tears flowed afresh, for of course all these
pretty plans must go, with the coming of the new
mother — no, the stepmother; she would never,
never call her mother! Her mother ! — she looked
up at the portrait that hung above the little clock
— the portrait of a fair sweet-faced woman with
pleasant eyes that seemed to follow you about
with a laugh in them. She died five years ago,
when May was nine years old, but May could
almost fancy she heard her mother saying as
those laughing eyes met her daughter's:

" What 's the matter with the litde daughter
now ? "

A sob caught in the daughter's throat here,
and she cried aloud, " Oh, Mamma, Mamma,
it 's no small thing that 's the matter now, but
a ver}', very great thing. It 's somebody com-
ing to take your place — your place and mine.
Mamma." But if May had a half fancy that
the eyes would look different, would change
their merry expression at this, she was mistaken.
As the yellow afternoon sun sent a bright dan-
cing ray across the canvas, the eyes seemed to
dance with it, in the happiest possible way, and
tick, tack, tick, tack, the litde clock sent its

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

147

yellow pendulum back and forth in the sun-
shine. From the portrait, May glanced at the
clock-face. Why, why, why ! the fifteen min-
utes had passed, and so absorbed had she been
in her thoughts, she had not heard the locomo-
tive whistle. How very odd. She ran out of
the room, and out of the hall upon the piazza.
The train must have arrived, and in five min-
utes more she would hear the carriage. From
end to end she paced slowly up and down.
How sweet the honeysuckle smelled, and the
late lilies were all red and gold bloom. Lean-
ing over the railing she broke one from its stem
and pinned it in her dress ; as she did so she
could see the clock through the open window.
Not only five, but ten minutes had gone. She
stopped and listened. Was that the carriage ?
No. Five minutes more. The train could n't
have arrived. What luas the matter ? Tick,
tack, tick, tack, another five minutes went by
and Mrs. Marks came out on the piazza.

" My dear, I never knew this train to be
late," she said anxiously. Then May's endur-
ance gave way, and catching her hat from the
hall stand she ran down the steps, calling back
as she went :

" I 'm going to the depot, Mrs. Marks, to see
if anything has been heard. I can't wait here."

" That 's right, dearie ; you '11 feel better to
go, but I would n't worry — there 's been some
delay somewhere, that 's all."

" Some delay somewhere ! " May -thought of
the delay that had occurred on the Boston and
Providence road the year before, when the Ros-
lindale bridge had given way, and hundreds of
people had gone down with it. Her heart
seemed to beat up into her throat, to stop her
voice, and almost her breath. She could not
frame the words to ask a question when she en-
tered the depot, but she heard some one say,
" There 's been an accident." She lost the
next sentence, and caught only the last words,
" — but the track is clear now, and the train has
started."

Walking to the further end of the platform,
away from all the people, poor May sat down
upon a baggage-truck to watch and wait. As
she sat there she imagined the worst that could
have happened. Perhaps her father was badly
hurt, perhaps he was killed, and she would

never see him again; and at the very time,
when he had been suffering, perhaps dying, she
had been having hard thoughts of him, had
blamed him for what he had done, and what he
had not done — for marrying again, and for not
telling her of his plans until the last moment.
She grew hot, then cold, as she thought of the
words she had said to Cathy Bond — of how
she had joined her in calling him unkind, and
even cruel. Oh, if only he came back alive, so
that she could show him how she loved him ! If
only he came back she would not do any of the
disagreeable things she had declared to Cathy
Bond that she would do. She would — yes,
she would — even kiss her stepmother when she
met her. She had said to Cathy only yester-
day, " I shall not kiss her, and I shall be very
stiff and cold to both of them." To I'oth of
them! Perhaps, perhaps —

In another moment May would have lost all
control of herself and burst out crying, if the
sound of a long shrill whistle had not roused
her to the immediate present. As she heard
it, she jumped to her feet and ran up the plat-
form.

Yes, there was the train rounding the curve.
In a minute she would know — what ? She
crowded her way through the throng of people
to the front. Swifdy, then slackening in speed,
the cars roll in and come to a full stop. There
are faces at the windows, there are voices say-
ing, " I am so glad to see you " ; but not the face,
not the voice she is longing for. She turns sick,
cold, and dizzy, and staggers backward with an
attempt to get away out of this eager throng
that seems so happy. Then it is that somebody
cries:

" Why, here she is, now ! "

She lifts her head, and there he is — her hand-
some, young-looking father, sound and well and
smiling down upon her.

" O Papa, Papa ! I thought you were killed
— the train was so late, and they said — they
said—"

" My dear child ! There, there, don't — don't
cry. It 's all right you see. Here, Margaret,
here 's this litde girl has been frightened half out
of her wits at the delay — thought I was killed."

May made a great effort to be calm, but the
reaction was so swift it was hard work, and her

I4S

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

pale face and tremulous lips were expressive of
her nervousness as she looked up to meet her
stepmother's glance. It was not a smiling
glance like her father's, but May found it easier
to meet for that reason. She knew her father
always dreaded what he called " a scene," and
had always discouraged any outbreaks either of
tears or excited laughter ; and with this knowl-
edge she was perfectly well aware that her
twitching lips and pallid face were annoying
him at that moment. But this serious glance
that met her, and the quiet remark, "I don't
wonder that you were frightened at such a de-
lay ; / should have been very much frightened
in your place," gave May a litde time to re-
cover herself, and then the quiet voice went on,
asking no questions, but speaking of the causes
of the delay, that did not, it seemed, involve
much danger, being merely an accident of ob-
struction by the breaking down of a freight-car,
of which warning was duly given from station
to stadon.

" Oh, I thought it was something dreadful,"
May broke forth at this. "I heard some one
say something about an accident, and I was too
frightened to ask a question myself."

" And so worked yourself up into a fever
with your imagination as usual, my dear," her
father responded, half laughing.

" She did tlie most natural thing in the world
for a girl. I think I should have done the same
thing," the quiet voice here said, with an easy
tone of bright decision.

" Oh, you ! I dare say. I 've a pair of you, I
see."

May looked at her father in surprise. He
looked back at her with a funny Kttle grimace.

" Yes, May, she 's just such another goose as
you are in some things."

May caught the smile upon her stepmother's
face. Her stepmother ! In the excitement she
had for the moment forgotten the stepmother.
She regarded her now for the first time with ob-
serving eyes. What did she see ?

A tall slender young woman, with brunette
coloring, and an air of ease and elegance about
her. May glanced across at her father. How
happy he seemed, and how young he appeared 1
But he must be a great deal older than this new
wife — this "Margaret." He had gray hairs,

and there was no gray in that dark coil and
fluff" under the small stylish bonnet. May took
in all these details and said to herself, " Why did
she marry him, I wonder ? " Then a mischiev-
ous little spirit whispered that her father was a
rich man, and she remembered what Cathy Bond
had said about girls marrying for money. Alas !
for May's good resolutions, as she sat waiting for
the train a few minutes before. If her father
only came back ! And here he was, full of life
and strength, and she had forgotten already.
If he only came back, she would show him how
she loved him, she would even — kiss her step-
mother when she met her ! But as the girl
thought of this last duty which she had meant
to perform, it suddenly came over her that she
had really not been called upon to perform it —
that nobody in fact, neither her father nor her
stepmother, had seemed to expect it. Of course
everything was to be accounted for by the ex-
citement of the occasion, but, nevertheless, a
feeling of chagrin sent a flush to May's cheek at
the recollection, and then a swift sharp question
stung her, " Was this the way she was to be for-
gotten by them ? "

Chapter III.

" A GARDEN-party ? Why yes, so I did prom-
ise you a garden-party some time. I remember,
but it seems to me — it 's rather late in the year,
is n't it?"

" Oh, no ; not if I set it for next week. Hill-
side is lovely in September."

" Yes, but next week is the fourth week in
September — pretty late in the month to count
on the weather. Margaret," and Mr. Bardett's
voice rose a little louder in tone as he called to
his wife, who was coming down one of the gar-
den walks to the piazza where he and May were
sitting.

" Yes," responded Margaret, looking up from
the flowers she carried.

" Don't you think the fourth week in Septem-
ber is rather late for a garden-party ? "

" Decidedly late. Why, I hope you are not
thinking of giving a garden-party, are you ? "

" I ? Oh, no ; it was May's idea. There, you
see — you '11 have to wait until ne.xt year, my
dear," turning to May.

<■]

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

149

Margaret lifted her head quickly, and saw a
rebellious expression on her stepdaughter's face.
It was a still, cold expression, that she had seen
several times before in the three days she had
been at Hillside. Coming forward more rapidly,
she said easily and pleasantly :

" It is very nice of you to think of a garden-
party for me, but it is rather late, you know."

Mr. Bartlett had taken up his newspaper, and
paid no heed to these words. May sat silent,
her chin dropped against her breast, all kinds
of mutinous little thoughts in her mind, tirst and
foremost of which was, " She thinks everything
is to be for her .f"

Mrs. Bartlett meanwhile stood regarding the
downbent face with a look of great perple.xity,
and with a slight flush on her cheek. The flush
deepened, as May suddenly jumped from her
chair and, catching up her school-satchel, started
off down the walk with a " Good-bye, Papa."

Her father glanced over his paper with a look
of surprise. It was not May's habit to go away
like this, without a good-bye kiss. He was about
to call her back, when he saw her join one of
her school friends just outside the gate. In a
few moments the matter slipped from his mind,
in the absorbing interest of the political news he
was reading.

It was Cathy Bond whom May had joined.
Cathy was full of a lively interest in the new
stepmother. She had found May rather re-
served in what she had said within the last three
days, and was greatly desirous of discovering
the "reason why," of seeing for herself what sort
of a person the stepmother was, and " how things
were going;" but her little plan of calling for
May was foiled by May's joining her outside the
gate. In a moment, however, she saw, with
those sharp eyes of hers, that something was
very much amiss, and in a sympathetic tone
asked :

" What is it, Maisie, what is the matter ? "

" Matter ! " With a catch in her breath, May
repeated the brief conversation about the garden-
party. The reserve of the last few days had
vanished. Her good resolutions had blown to
the winds. But it was only to Cathy that she
spoke directly. Whether Cathy would have had
the strength to have been silent if May had asked
her, it is impossible to tell. But May did not

ask her, — perhaps in her resentment she did n't
care, perhaps she did n't think ; at any rate Cathy
did not keep silent, and by the afternoon recess
all the girls knew the story of the garden-party
as they had heard it from Cathy Bond.

Even Joanna Macy was stirred to indignation
by this story.

" She must be conceited to think the party
could only be for her. What had May to do
with getting up a garden-party for her step-
mother ? "

Susy Morris, who heard the indignant tone of
Joanna's voice, wanted to know What it meant.

" Oh, it means," cried Joanna, " that Cathy
was n't far wrong about the stepmother"; and
then Joanna repeated the story, as she had
heard it from Cathy, that May had asked her
father that morning if she might have the garden-
party he had promised her, and that her step-
mother had interfered and said that, though she
was much obliged to May for thinking of giving
a garden-party for her, that it was decidedly too
late for it, and that she hoped it would not be
thought of any more ! " The idea," concluded
Joanna, " of her taking it for granted that the
party must be for her — that May, a girl of four-
teen, would think of getting up any kind of a
party for her ! I never heard anything so con-
ceited. Well?" as Susy's small face began to
wrinkle up with a puzzled frown, " say it out,
Susy, whatever it is ! "

" My cousin — "

Joanna shouted with laughter. '

"Oh, Susy, that cousin of yours!"

But Susy went on : " My cousin was n't but
fifteen, and she asked her father to make a sail-
ing party for Iier stepmother. Perhaps May's
stepmother thought that May was just asking
for the party in the same way, as a kind of
welcome, you know. She might have misun-
derstood, or she might not have heard the
whole, — don't you see?"

" No, I don't see. They were all on the
piazza talking ; and May had distinctly asked
her father if she might give to the school-girls
the garden-party that he had promised that she
might. Now, Miss Susy, what have )'ou to
say ? "

" Notliing, only it does seem queer, if all
this was said na;ht out before the stepmother.

ISO

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER,

[Dec.

that she should have thought the party was for
her, and should have thanked May. When she
did that, why did n't May tell her how it was
— or why didn't Mr. Bardett ? "

" Oh, Susy, you will make a first-class lawyer
if you live to grow up," was Joanna's laughing
reply to this. But, though Joanna laughed,
Susy's words set her to thinking that perhaps
there was a mistake somewhere, and suddenly
she thought of something her mother had said
to her once when she had repeated an unkind
story to her : " My dear, a story twice told is
two stories ; and three times told, the truth is
pretty well lost sight of"

But when Joanna tried to take this ground
with the girls, she could get no hearing, for
Cathy Bond was a power at the Hillside school,
with her quick sympathies, and her quick, glib
way of expressing them. To May, this quick,
ghb way had always been attractive ; it was still
more so now, when she found it ranged so
warmly on her side. Yet if she had heard
Cathy's repetition of her account of the garden-
party conversation, I think she would have been
a little startled, but she did not hear it, and so
matters went on from bad to worse; that is, the
story grew and grew, and one girl and another
took up what they called poor May's cause,
and looked, if they did not speak, their pit)',
until May became such a center of interest that
she could not but be affected by it, could not
but feel that she had reason to be very un-
happy. Yet, in spite of this feeling, there was
n't so much outward indication of it as one
might have expected.

Joanna remarked upon this one day to Cathy,
declaring that, for her part, she thought that
May seemed to look very cheerful under the
circumstances.

" Cheerful ! " exclaimed Cathy tragically.
" Why she 's just wretched, but she 's keeping
up ; you know they are having no end of giddy
goings-on up there."

" Up where ? "

"Why, at the Bardetts'. Lots of people are
calling, and it seems that Mrs. Bartlett has any
quantity of friends and relatives in Boston, and
they are driving out to see her and having five
o'clock tea with her, and all that sort of thing."

" And May is in it all ? "

" Why, to be sure. It 's a trial to her, of course,
and it 's as much as she can do to keep up."

" A iria/ to her. Why is it a trial to her ? "
asked Joanna, imitating Cathy's grown-up words
and ways.

Cathy flamed up.

" You don't seem to have any feeling, Joanna.
Don't you suppose she thinks of her own mother
while these things are going on ? "

This was too much for Joanna's keen common
sense, and she laughed outright.

" Things going on ! Calling, and drinking
tea ! Oh, Cathy ! "

" Well, but — but — it is n't just ordinary call-
ing ; it 's like — like parties," answered Cathy,
flushing and stammering.

"And has n't Mr. Bartlett had whist-parties
and dinner-parties many a time ? "

" They were gentlemen's parties."

"Well, did n't May's Aunt Mary — her
mother's own sister — have parties when she
was staying there, and," triumphantly, " has n't
May herself had a birthday-party every year
since her mother died ? "

" Yes ; but that 's different. This is a stranger
who comes to take her mother's place."

" She 's a stranger to May ; but Mr. Bardett
has married this stranger just as he married
May's mother."

" Yes, and I think it was horrid for him to
do so."

" Oh, Cathy, lots of people marry again — the
nicest and best of people."

" Well, I think it is perfectly dreadful, when
there are children, to give them a strange woman
in the place of their mother. It is just as selfish
as it can be."

" But, Cathy, there are good stepmothers as
well as bad ones. Why, stepmothers are just
like other people."

" Yes, before they are stepmothers ; but when
they step into own mothers' places, they —
they — "

As Cathy hesitated, Joanna laughingly broke
in with, "They become wicked wolves, who are
all ready to worry and devour their poor vic-
tims ! " Cathy could not help joining a little in
Joanna's laugh ; but she said, almost in the next
breath :

" Oh, you can make fun, Joanna, as much as

iSSg.]

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

151

you like, but you '11 never make 7ne believe in
stepmothers ! "

Just when Cathy was saying this, just when
Joanna was wrinkling up her forehead and want-
ing to say impatiently, " Oh, you little pig of
prejudice ! " around the corner, where they stood
talking, there suddenly appeared a big open car-
riage, full of gayly dressed people.

" There she is ! " whispered Cathy, pointing
with a nod of her head to a lady who was smil-
ingly speaking to the gentleman sitting next to
her.

Joanna craned her neck forward eagerly.
This was her first glimpse of the stepmother.

" Why, she 's a beauty ! " she cried out to
Cathy ; " and she looks like a girl ! But
where 's May, I wonder ? "

" Oh, yes ; where 's May ? You see she
is n't there. I suppose she was n't wanted —
there was n't room for her," answered Cathy
spitefully.

But presently round the corner they heard
again a Hght roll of wheels on the smooth road,
and there appeared another carriage. It was a

litde yellow wagon, — a village wagon, — and in
it were May Bartlett and a young girl about her
own age. May was driving. She looked more
than cheerful ; she looked as if she was enjoying
herself very much, and she was so occupied that
she failed to see her two school friends as she
drove by.

Joanna laughed.

" That 's what you call ' keeping up,' I sup-
pose, Cathy," she said slyly.

Cathy did n't answer.

" And she has got the village wagon, after all.
You were perfectly sure she would n't get it,
you know."

" Well, May told me that when she asked her
father for it, he said he did n't believe he could
afford it now, and her stepmother flushed up
and looked at him so queerly, as if she did n't
like it, and so, of course. May thought that was
the end of it. But I suppose when he came to
think it over he was ashamed not to get it for
her."

Joanna wrinkled up her forehead again, but
she kept her thoughts to herself.

f To be continued, )

DREAMS.

By S. Walter Norris.

OME tiny elves, one evening, grew

mischievous, it seems.
And broke into the store-room where

the Sand-man keeps his dreams.
And gathered up whole armfuls of

dreams all bright and sweet.
And started forth to peddle them

a-down the village street.

Oh, you would never, never guess how queerly these dreams sold;
Why, nearly all the youngest folk bought dreams of being old ;
And one wee chap in curls and kilts, a gentle little thing.
Invested in a dream about an awful [jirate king ;

152

DREAMS.

A maid, who thought her pretty name old-fashioned and absurd,
Bought dreams of names the longest and the queerest ever heard ;
And, strange to say, a lad, who owned all sorts of costly toys,
Bought dreams of selUng papers \vith the raggedest of boys.

And then a dream of summer and a barefoot boy at play

Was bought up very quickly by a gentleman quite gray ;

And one old lady — smiling through the grief she tried to hide —

Bought bright and tender visions of a little girl who died.

A ragged little beggar girl, with weary, wistful gaze,
Soon chose a Cinderella dream, with jewels all ablaze —
Well, it was n't many minutes from the time they came in sight
Before the dreams were all sold out and the elves had taken flight.

HAPPV CHARITY CHILDREN.

<- ,!> ever a "v/or Id coli

cy covered the^rs^SJ in. (Ke meado
zy coK'evcd. fnc $ca^c by tni
.J. cou./d enter rve.ve5» a. wDod/ar\d p
lUt you /elt 2vcro5> ^pur -/"ace
|iK<£ cfirv^ind" o/" a cobweb
ike a Thread o/^ -/^iJmy l&.ce-

\:<

C\J-

i^^ ' ow tKe dearest q^-^^ac-pld wjama

Ma-d brujlied a^d^^

^^^^^>^nd polisked arvd rubbed ,r^*.^'ri

"^Z V"%=^

Vou XVTI.— 19.

^ sKe 5©>t dowrv to rejt on IK^ door-s^orve,

jV\/"itk Kcr (orvo'-Kandlecl broom in Ken hzynd,

^L Kcr eyc> vvcrvt tKouy'kj/ixlk^ v/andermd
^^way o\/e.r S^'^ a.r\d land .
,e 58«.w <Kc wcLs lf^ tKc n\cev.o(.ow,
^^^ike noted the wet^ on /Ke se<^^,
g^^nd tKe do>3a.mer tKreadj that /'/oatcd
:^==^^]^pkiween. ~kcr anel tKe Kedde. . . ^/

%/Ken —
Jllut col

; nc»t (did weimSi** iKoo)^ Kcrkead
*:i^nd jadly revijed Kcr cycs.

ibwebs m the sKie5 ! , It \' %^__,f\^r\y^'yi- ^*)^, '.
/I'lms o/ laee ^ /^■^'''fi, . :' ' ''I'r- '^'

fei'Ke yllms o/* laee

"TXey lay on tKeykce
Q^' tKeykr ^ Kee^venly b/ae ,
.^^\d texndlcd a.nd ^tt^'r^ . •■"

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n ^Kc 5ei.id,— tKat dea.r
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iKalt 1 ioOe away my time on eartn, ,J

^ ay my

%^{tK cobwebs in tKe iky_J^

\e wcrxt to tKe ,^^et\ of "^oiKarrx ,
1^^^% 1 Kree wi>e meA Wene tKey ,

I Key were 5c|u©a'ir\cf tKe cfrcle every one
VVitk tKree \or\d p'bes o/T cley .

"^ wKo Svre Qjb\[e.ck tKe vvi^e ,

Help rwe: ]

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To h'a^vei To-dei^'

Up to tKc /&.r o/^ 5ki"c3

« >^

Key looked E.t tkeir cii*ciej,tKc_y looKecf s.t t/\e c(
y^rxd \\'llc( \A/a,3 ea<_K ju/\ker\ eye ,

3"-*^^ rvevcr ev word
Tke Qi\ik WomaA Keard

«^«" S^^"^^ ^ marter o/' #y-&r\d-^y,;'"

( T*'' DoAt S'^ tkere ar\d smile , -»

f^ Corrxe ifvovv n-ie tKe wfvy to tKe^Ky
'' • . . B uit tKe ^^y\ -on tke f t,7e
(_orvti'nu.cci to j;ni/e
■■.y^\y -r\n.d anjvvered Kcr ^y-Sknd-Hy .

I,'-

ow l^tcr , cfood J%per 'your pi'cK/e preset
J^Ajxd Kcfp mc up to tKc jky ,' "
Dut Ke (ookeci at" Kij peppers, tKere vva3 n/^ a JoecK

I do to tKe Parrve .dowrA under rr\e
If" 5Ke cz^n l\cla mc I know ^ke will ,
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And 3ke rolled ou.t tke crujt.and )aid. ^y-andj

»;•■'

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lame sicrAed

'^CBKcre 13 rvorvc ofvyzn-\zd{, tke (y _
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ey are all too busy or ia5y to jay
/\. vx^ord save JPy-and-^y !
o to my rveicfnbor tke ^ramble -hujh AT\ar^
CKe man. 30 vvorv-drou) ^^'S^ •^-^^-'^'^^^^^h^
He Know5 n\e-vV(e^l|

A.rv.d Ke l( 3urely tell
Me tke way &.t least tro tke ikies ' "'^'''■'''

IS6

put orv Ker beautiVxii cTreerv <?il?v3k
r\di started, broorrv m Karvol ,
tKc hou^e o/^Kcr neicrKbof tKe "Birarnble-
mile aweny Over tke 5'a.nd . I b^sK

^ /■

arv o

tk<

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O Src^mb|e-bu3K<^ar^ I ^"''^S

X^t'wJ G '/^'^'^ Jo worvdrou5 wi^e ! '
^^l \a/i|I you. tell rvAC tke wevy
\Jj'i'j ^ nxu^t trevvel lo-diay »j /

ritl\cc,tcll fr\e W'\/

Till tkou. tKe piace kast /buixd
■\crc tNc'^s^iAbow ladder tKat rcacKe^ tKe skieS
^e>t<> wi'tk its end orv tKc c5rour\d
%»Ad_climb by day ^n<d cb'rnb by ni^ Kt
lEs^-cK slippery $eve;\/blcJ round. *'

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^ !l, n\u|)t seek S^^'"''^^ otkcr way to do .'*

d Wo man I© lcl^^on\ an 1 0)d-%^n> an ! c^aotKKe.
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§)0 ^fy^^ dont bke it, you aeednt bianAe n^ve .

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MRAnd rope> to t:l\e Kevndles l.\e /"led ,
%nc( ono he mexde /§i5t to tKc old. cKiivcK towei'
"vci o/AC to a. tT'ee bc5icle .

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^iWs:.]

is*'-

l^e 3WLUAQ' Ker &(( o/ey arvd. Kc sWunccKei' ev.li ni'grnt
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'^'^4^tK e<'^o Ke2^ve © .' and a ffeave £\wj\y .'
%^Kile tKc I line doers aei-tKercd zsrourxd to yelp
c^nd hKeiP>-an-yble-'lbu>K^|jM'> cn'cd ^y-evnci-^y
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(/]

<^i

- -i—^^V^jGi?^.-"-^;.-

5^r-#

_^ti:^___^^^^la'^'^man. and basket and broorn were ^en( ; 4' ^ '.

Ken e>. /armcrs wi/e
'^.hy^y^if-s-';" C'ut tKe ropej-and awa^ ^Ke wervt

■^^

'Jj f Wi'nety times S^S KiVK as tKe rrvoorv.

^yiO'la%#oman!@ld'^^manIOJdWoman!^uo//\I, / p

yi\

I d % ^man I ©JoH^man: quo
.^^■tAd Til be back a^a-in — by s^wik by

O \vK;iKer,©)vvKi't|\er,©wKitKcr 30 K^^'k ?" I J 'MXi,
" To brusK ti\c cobwebs out o/' Inejky, »> '/ ' ' f^

4^y

j.F.JIiH&LING- Sii

** 1 'll wait fob you. come on !

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAN GIANT.

By Tudor Jenks.

Early one morning during my third visit to
Patagonia, as I was strolling upon the banks of
the River Chico, keeping a sharp lookout for a
choice sjjecimen of the Rutabaga Trcmcndosa,
I saw what, at the time, I supposed to be a
large and isolated cliif. It looked blue, and
consequently I supposed it to be at some dis-
tance. Resuming my search for the beautiful
saffron blossom which I have already named,
my attention was for some moments abstracted.
After pulling the plant up by the roots, how-
ever, I happened to cast my eyes again toward

the supposed cliff, and you can conceive my ex-
treme mortification and regret when I saw that
it was not a cliff at all, but a giant, and, so far
as I could see, one of the most virulent species.
He was advancing at a run, and although not
exerting himself overmuch seemed to be going
at a rate of some five kilometers a minute. Much
annoyed at the interruption to my researches, I
paused only long enough to deposit the Ruta-
baga securely in my botany box and then broke
into an accelerated trot. Do me the justice to
acquit me of any intention of entering into a

l62

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAX GIAXT.

[Dec.

contest of speed with the pursuing monster. I
am not so conceited as to imagine I can cover five
or even three kilometers a minute. No ; I relied,
rather, on the well-established scientific proba-
bility that the giant was stujiid. I expected,
therefore, that my head would have an oppor-
tunity to save my heels.

It was not long before I saw the need of tak-
ing immediate steps to secure my specimens
from destruction and myself from being eaten.
He was certainly gaining upon me. As he
foolishly ran with his mouth open, I noticed
that his canine teeth were very well developed
— not a proof, but strong evidence, that he was
a cannibal. I redoubled my s])eed, keeping an
eager eye ujjon the topograpliy in the hope
that I might find some cave or crevice into
which 1 could creep and thus obtain time
enough to elaborate a plan of escape. I had
not run more than si.\ or eight kilometers, I
think (for distances are small in that jiart of
Patagonia — or were, when I was there), when
1 saw a most convenient cretaceous cave.

To ensconce myself within its mineral recesses
w-as the work of but a moment, and it was fort-
unate for me that it took no longer. Indeed,
as I roUeii myself deftly beneath a shelving
rock, the giant was so near tliat he pulled off
one of my boots.

He sat down at the entrance and breathed
with astonishing force and rapidity.

" Now, if he is as stupid as one of his race
normally should be," I said to myself, " he will
stay there for .several hours, and I shall lo.se a
great part of this beautiful day." The thought
made me restless, and 1 looked about to see
whether my surroundings would hint a solution
of the situation.

1 was rewardeil by discovering an outlet far
above me. I could see through a cleft in the
rocks portions of a cirro-cumulus cloud. Fixing
my hat more firnil}- upon m\' head, I began the
ascent. It did not take long. Indeed, my
progress was, if anything, rather accelerated by
the efforts of the attentive giant, who had secured
a long and flexible switch, — a young India-
rubber tree, I think, though I did not notice its
foliage closely, — and was poking it with con-
siderable violence into the cave. In fact, he
lifted me some decameters at e\'erv thrust.

It may easily be understood, therefore, that I
was not long upon the way. When I emerged,
I was much pleased with the situation. Speak-
ing as a military expert, it was perfect. Stand-
ing upon a commodious ledge, which seemed
to have been made for the purpose, my head
and shoulders jirojected from an opening in the
clifl', which was just conveniently out of the giant's
reach. As my head rose over the edge of the
opening, the giant spoke :

" Aha, you 're there, are you ? "

" I won't deny it," I answered.

" You think you 're safe, don't you ? " he went
on tauntingly.

" I know I 'm safe," I answered, with an easy
confidence which was calculated to ])lease.

" Well," he replied, " to-night I am going to
eat you for supper ! "

" \V'hat, then," I asked, with some curiosity,
" are you going to do for dinner ? "

" Oh, if that troubles you," said he, " all you
have to do is to come out at dinner-time and I
will eat you then."

Evidently the giant was not a witling. His
answers were apt. After a moment's reflection
I concluded it was worth the effort to make an
appeal to his better nature — his over-soul.

" Don't you know that it is wrong to eat your
fellow-beings ? " I a.sked, with a happy mingling
of austere reproach and sym])athetic pain.

" Do you mean to come out soon ? " asked
the giant, seating himself upon an adjacent cliff,
after tearing off such of the taller and stiffer
trees as were in his way.

"It depends somewhat upon whether you
remain where you are," I answered.

" Oh, I shall stay," said the giant, pleasandy.
" Game is rare, and I have n't eaten a white
man for two weeks."

This remark brought me back to my appeal
to his higher being. " Then I shall remain here,
too, for the present," I answered, " though I
should like to get away before sunset. It 's
likely to be humid here after the sun sets.
But. to return to my question, have you never
thought that it was immoral and selfish to
eat your fellow-creatures ? "

" Why, certainly," said the giant, with a hearty
frankness that was truly refreshing. " That is
why," he went on, " I asked you whether you

THE PROFESSOR AND THE PATAGONIAX GIANT.

i6:

were coming out soon. If not, I would be glad
to while the time away by e.xplaining to you
exactly how 1 feel about these matters. Of
course I could smoke you out " (here he
showed me an enormous boulder of flint and a
long steel rod, the latter evidently a propeller-
shaft from some wrecked ocean-steamer), '• but
I make it a rule seldom to eat a fellow-mortal
until he is fully convinced that, all things con-
sidered, I am justified in so doing."

The allusion to the smoking-out process con-
vinced me that this was no hulking ignoramus
of a giant, and for a moment I began to fear
that my Rutabaga Treinendosa was lost to the
world forever. But the latter part of his speech
re-assured me.

"If you can convince me that I ought to be
eaten," I said, willing to be reasonable, " I shall

found employment upon a farm. I stayed there
three days. Then I was told that it cost more
to keep me than I was worth ; which was true.
So I left. Then I went to work on a railroad.
Here I did as much as twenty men. The result
was a strike, and I was discharged."

" Is there much more autobiography ? " I
asked as politely as I could, for I was not at all
interested in this unscientific memoir.

" Very little," he answered. ■■ I can sum it
up in a few words. Wherever I tried to get
work, I was discharged, because my board was
too expensive. If I tried to do more work to
make up for it, the other men were dissatisfied,
because it took the bread out of their mouths.
Now, I put it to you, what was I to do ? "

'■ Evidently, you were forced out of civiliza-
tion," I answered, " and compelled to rely upon

I SAW THE NEED OF TAKING IMMEDIATE STEPS TO SAVE MV SPECIMENS.

certainly ofter no objection. But I confess I
have little fear that you will succeed."

'■ I first discovered that I was a giant," he
said, absently chewing the stem of the India-
rubber tree, " at a very early age. I could not
get enough to eat. I then lived in New York
City, for I am an American, like yourself"

We bowed ^\^th mutual pleasure.

" I tried various sorts of work, but found I
could not earn enough at any of them to pay
my board-bills. I even exhibited myself in a
museum, but found there the same trouble.

" I consulted my grandfather, who was a man
of matured judgment and excellent sense. His
advice was to leave the city and try for work in
the country. I did so, and after some little trouble

nature for your sustenance. That is," I went
on, to forestall another question, " you had to
become a hunter, trapper, or fisherman, — for of
cour.se, in your case, agriculture was out of the
question, as you could n't easily get down
to the ground, and would crush with your feet
more crops than you could raise with your
hands."

His eyes sparkled with joy at being so thor-
oughly understood. " E.xactly," he said. "But
the same trouble followed me there. \Mierever
I setded, the inhabitants complained that what
I ate would support hundreds of other people."

" Very true," I answered ; " but, excuse me,
could you hand me a small rock to sit upon ? —
it is tiresome to stand here."

164

THE TROFESSOK AND THE PATAGONIAN GIANT.

[Dec.

" Come out," lie said. "You have my word
of honor, as a compatriot of George "

" Say no more ! " I broke in ha.stily.

I came out, and was soon, by his kind aid,
perched upon the branch of a tree conveniently
near.

" This argument," he said, sighing, " met me
at every turn ; and after much cogitation I could
see no solution of the difficulty. No matter
how far from the ' busy haunts of men ' I pro-
ceeded, it was only to find that food grew scarcer
as men were less numerous. At last I reached
Patagonia, and after a few years I have eaten it
almost bare. Now, to what conclusion am I
driven ? "

I thought it over. .\t last I said :

" I see the extremities to which you are re-
duced. But u])on what princi])lc do you ])ro-
ceed to the next step — cannibalism ? "

" The greatest good to the greatest number,"
said he. " Whenever I eat an animal, I dimin-
ish the stock of food which supports mankind,
but whenever I eat a man, I diminish the num-
ber to be supported. .\s all the wise men agree
that it is the subsistence which is short, my
course of action tends ultimately to the greater
ha]i|)iness of the race."

This seemed very reasonable and for a mo-
ment I was staggered. Then a hapj))' thought

"'AHA, VOL" 're there, ARE VOU ? ' "

>^l

THE PROFESSOR AXD THE PATAGOXIAX ClAXT.

• 6s

came to me, and I sug-
gested that it' he should
allow himself to die ol
start-atioa the demaod
for subsistence would be
:<ill moie leduced.

: shook his head
•* 1 used to h. re
so mysel£ But the

tabui...

to most accurate <(.'.■>
noi. has c-on\-ince«;l :«c
j»;;. "nd a doubt that I
can catch •-■ M^ch

men, in a ;. .. -, -liorc

:han make up for what
would be saved if I
should allow my own
organism to cease its
active exenioit> in the
(.M-^- of humanity."

I thought ren- cans
fitUr over these argu-
ments and was unable
•jiw in thetn.
in of ^<ieoce."
I said, after a pause, " I
couM wish that dtis in-
terview might be iw-
poned to the world.**

- Give yourself no
uncastnesss. It >haU be
doQc." said the giant.

- .Vnd I should also be
glad to have the Rmta-

(•tr ; ! T' ■■ -

" With pleasure," said the gunt
'IThrt* was no exctise for further ticii*

\ •.,. '. '. '.htf ^iant. — In i
' .: •- - :•.. .rsation verhitif
tessof htmsHt, before su[
p«a{»<r again, but the Ui

■'.lent tastes, and i^.
x^r:'i htm verv rr.

the

".Ant'
sreakin^
Perfectly,

I said, and kkked off the other

kmd mvitatuo. 1 should lind it graoiying to have the trustees at my own table. \

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

Bv Walter Camp.

L:*ij<stik'^

KHOI'ES. WO'iiiRihF. lltH"ELFlNGER.

MlCU no. CORI'IN.

WrKTKMBERG.

VALE FOOT-BALL TEAM OK 1888,

GILL. WALLACE.

GRAVES.

"What makes a good foot-ball player?" is a
question asked over and over again. Many are
the answers given, but no answer is correct that
does not contain the word " pluck." The same
elements that go to make up excellence in anv
of the other field sports are requisite in foot-ball :
but while in certain of the others that peculiar
type of courage called pluck is only required in
a moderate degree, in foot-ball it is absolutely
indispensable. Many a man has said: "Oh! I
am too small to play foot-ball ; I could n't get
on the team." Such a man makes a mistake.

Look at the records of our j)layers and see how
full they are of the names of small men. With-
ington. Gushing, Harding, Hodge, Beecher, and
twenty others, have played weighing under a
hundred and fort)' I Nor has it been that their
deeds have been remembered because performed
by such small men. These men made points as
well as reputations. There is a place on the foot-
ball field for a man, no matter what he weighs ;
and that brings to mind a remarkable pair of boys
and what they did for a Yale team at one time.
One was the .son of a United States Senator

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

167

from Massachusetts, and the other a younger
brother of a well-known Brooklyn lawyer. They
were classmates at Yale, and had done more or
less foot-ball work during the course. These
two men ^veighed about a hundred and twenty-
five pounds apiece, or together a little over the
weight of the 'varsity snap-back. In that year
the 'varsity team was suffering from a combina-
tion of two disorders — over-confidence and lack
of strong practice. None knew this better than
these two little chaps, for they understood the
game thoroughly. One day, then, they appeared
at the field in their foot-ball toggery, and without
assistance from the 'varsity captain set at once
to work upon organizing the " scrub side," as the
outside or irregular players are called. One of
them played center and the other quarter, and
it was not many days before the scrub side be-
gan to have a game and a way of its own. The
overfed, underworked university players began
to find that they could n't have things all their
own way. Such tricks \vere played upon them
that they were forced to wake from their apathy.
These two boys began to show them the way to
make use of brains against weight and strength,
and the scrub side, that a week or two before had
been unable to hold the 'varsity even enough
to make the contest interesting, actually had the
audacity to score against them once or twice
every afternoon. How those two ever got such
work out of the rabble they had to handle, no
one knows to this da)' ; but it was the making of
the 'varsity team, for it speedily developed
under this experience into one of Yale's strong-
est teams, and I have often heard one of that
team remark since that he 'd rather play against
any team in the Association than against the
"scrubs" lead by " Pop " Jenks and "Timmy "
Dawes.

This brings us to another quality : the brains
of a team. That team is the best which has the
most brains. Foot-ball is, even now, an unde-
veloped sport. There is room for an almost
infinite number of as yet unthought-of plays.
Every season brings forward man\- new ones.
If a player wishes to devote a little of his spare
time to a fascinating amusement, let him take
pencil and paper and plan out combinations in
the evening, and try them the next day. He
will soon find that he is bringing out not only

new but successful plays. Some think that the
captain of the 'varsity team is the only one who
has an opportunity to try this ; but if two or three
on the scrub side will make the attempt they will
find that a 'varsity team is no more proof against
a new scheme than the veriest scrub team in ex-
istence. In fact, oftentimes the 'varsity players
are so sublime in their own consciousness of
superiority that they are the simplest men on
the field to lead into traps and defeat by a little
exercise of ingenuity. If a boy at school is n't
on the first team, he can get together a few men
of the second team and have the satisfaction of
actually showing his betters how to play.

" Play not for gain but sport," is thoroughly
sound ; but it means play honestly and hard, not
listlessly and carelessly, and make it your sport
to win. Then if you lose, put a good face on
it ; but go home and think out a way to win next
time. Brains w'ill beat brute strength every time
if you give them fair play.

Kndurance is another element of success.
Plenty of dash when it is necessary, but behind
it there must be the steady, even, staying quali-
ties. For these, good training is chiefly responsi-
ble ; because, although natural endurance does
exist in some men, it is not common, while the
entlurance of well-trained men is a thing that
can be relied upon with confidence.

.\ direct case in point was a \ictorj' of Prince-
ton over Yale, in 1878. Upon the Yale team
were some three or four men, upper class men,
W'ho thought that they had done enough training
in former years, and they therefore made but a
pretense of following out the rules of strict
training. The example of these men aft'ected
several of the other players to such an extent
that there was great laxity. Up to the time of
the final contest, this team had performed well,
and it was generally believed that they would
have no great difficulty in defeating Princeton.

In the first half of the game they pressed the
Orange men hard, and several times all but
scored. In the dressing-room at intermission
there was a general impression that, with the «ind,
which would be in Yale's favor the second half,
they must surely win. The second half began,
and it was not many minutes before the Yale
men found themselves steadily losing ground.
There was in the Princeton runners a resistless

1 68

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IX AMERICA.

[Dec.

force that kept Yale retreating nearer and nearer ton had come to New Haven after a long
to her own goal. At last, by a brilliant play, wrangle about the place of playing, and had
Princeton succeeded in making a touch-down brought a team supposed by experts through-

CARPENTER.

DA\lb. TKAKhORD.

DEAN. HARDING,

WELD — manal,i;r
SEARS.

rOKTER.
WOODMAN.

Cf.MNOCK. L1-:L.

CROSBY. CRANSTON.

HARVARD FOOT-BALL TEAM OF l8

from which a goal was kicked. During the re-
mainder of the game, Princeton, although mak-
ing no further score, held Yale fast down inside
the twenty-five-yard line, and the Blue went
back to New Haven with a very salutary lesson
on the evil of neglecting the laws of training.

These are laws which no foot-ball player can
afford to ignore.

L.\m.a.r's Rux.

One of the most magnificent dashes ever
made on an American foot-ball field was the
run made by Lamar, of Princeton, in the game
with Yale, which was played upon the Yale
field, November 21, 1885. The game had
been an unusual one in many respects. Prince-

out the country to be sure winners. The Yale
team was a green one, and none of her parti-
sans hoped for more than a respectable show-
ing against the Princeton veterans. But Peters,
the Yale captain, had done wonders with his
recruits, as the game soon showed. His team
opened with a rush and actually forced the
fight for the entire first half They scored a
goal from the field upon the astonished Prince-
tonians, and, in spite of the vahant efforts put
forth against them, seemed certain of victory.
The feeling of the Princeton team and her sym-
pathizers can easily be imagined. The sun was
low in the horizon, nearly forty minutes of the
second half were gone, and no one dared to
hope such failing fortunes could be retrieved in
the few remaining minutes. The ball was in

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

169

Yale's hands, half-way down the field and on
the northern edge. For a moment Captain
Peters hesitated, and consulted with another of
his players as to whether he should continue the
running game and thus make scoring against
him impossible and victory certain, or send the
ball by a kick down in front of his enemy's goal
and trust to a fumble to increase his score. Per-
haps not a dozen men knew what was in his
mind. A kick was surely the more generous
play in the eyes of the crowd. He settled the
ball under his foot, gave the signal, and shot it
back. The quarter sent it to Watkinson, who
drove it with a low, swinging punt across the

attempted to catch it, but it shot off his breast to-
ward the southern touch-line. Lamar, who had
been slightly behind this man, was just starting
up to his assistance from that particular spot. As
the ball shd off with its force hardly diminished
he made a most difficult short-bound catch of
it on the run, and sped away along the south-
ern boundary. The Yale forwards had all gone
past the ball, in their expectation of getting
it, as they saw the missed catch. Lamar,
therefore, went straight along toward the half-
back and back. Watkinson, the kicker, had
hardly stirred from his tracks, as the entire play
had occupied but a few seconds, and he was

HODCF, R
GRIFFITH. HARRIS.

TOLER.

COOK

TRINCETON FOOT-BALL TRAM OF 18

twenty-five-yard line and toward the farther therefore too near the northern side of the field
goal post. It was a perfect kick for Yale's to have even a chance to cut off the runner,
purposes, difficult to catch and about to land Lamar, with the true instinct of the born run-
close to the enemy's posts. A Princeton man ner, saw in a moment his opportunity, and ran
Vol. XVII.— 20.

I70

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Dec.

Straight along the southern edge as if he in-
tended to get by there. Bull and his comrade
(who then were inexperienced tacklers) were the
two men in his pathway, and they both bunched

LAMAR DODGING THE YALE TACKLERS.

over by the line as the Princeton runner came
flying down upon them. Just as he was almost
upon them, Lamar made a swerve to the right,
and was by them like lightning before either
could recover. By this time two or three of the
Yale forwards, Peters among them, had turned
and were desperately speeding up the field after
Lamar, who was but a few yards in advance,
having given up several yards of his advantage
to the well-executed maneuver by which he
had cleared his field of the half-back and back.
Then began the race for victory. Lamar had
nearly forty yards to go, and, while he was run-
ning well, had had a sharp " breather " already,
not only in his run thus far, but in his superb
dodging of the backs. Peters, a strong, untiring,
thoroughly trained runner, was but a few yards
behind him, and in addition to this he was the
captain of a team which but a moment before
had been sure of victory. How he ran ! But
Lamar — did he not too know full well what the
beat of those footsteps behind him meant ? The
white five-yard lines fairly flew under his feet;

past the broad twenty-five-yard hne he goes,
still with three or four yards to spare. Now he
throws his head back with that familiar motion
of the sprinter who is almost to the tape, and
who will run his heart
out in the last few
strides, and, almost be-
fore one can breathe,
he is over the white
goal-line and panting
on the ground, with
the ball under him,
a touch-down made,
from which a goal was
kicked, and the day
saved for Princeton.

Bull's Kick.

The season of 1888
had opened with a veri-
table foot-ball boom.
The previous season
had ended with a close
contest between Har-
vard and Yale, while
Princeton, although oc-
cupying third place, had had by no means a
weak team. Reports of the preliminary work of
the three great teams, while conflicting, pointed
m a general way to an increased strength at each
uni\ersity. The Boston papers were lauding the
work of the Harvard team, and the New York
papers returning the compliment with tales of
large scores by the Princeton men. Advices from
New Haven showed that Yale had a far greater
wealth of material from which to draw players
than either of the others, so that although the
actual strength of the team could not be learned,
it was certain that the lugubrious reports from
the City of Elms had little foundation. In
this state of affairs, the first game, which was
scheduled to be between the Crimson and the
Orange and Black, was eagerly awaited. The
game was played at Princeton, and an enor-
mous crowd assembled to wimess the match.
Both sides were confident of victory, and
Princeton was also determined to avenge the
defeat of the former season. The day was per-
fect, and the game a thoroughly scientific one.

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

171

Although Harvard battled manfully up to the
very last moment, she could not overcome the
lead which Princeton had obtained early in the
game, and was at last forced to return to Cam-
bridge defeated. The hopes of Princeton soared
up that afternoon to the highest pitch, and those
who were well posted on the relative merits of
foot-ball players agreed with them that their
prospects were indeed of the brightest. Had it
not been for news which came over the wires
that evening from New Haven, it would have
been concluded that Princeton would find an
easy prey in Yale. But that news was some-
thing startling. It seems that the Yale-Wes-
leyan championship game had been played that
same day. Harvard and Princeton had each
already met Wesleyan,
but neither had scored
over fifty points against
them. The astonish-
ment of all foot-ball
men was great, then,
when the news came ^ ^
that Yale had made {^^l^X;
the almost unprece- (fxf&KW
dented score of 105 l=-f^\ h''
againstthe Middletown
men. This, then, was
the state of affairs pre-
vious to the Yale-
Princeton match. Har-
vard was now out of
the question, owing to
her defeat by Prince-
ton, and all interest
centered in this final
contest. The day, while
not very promising in
its morning aspect,
turned out propitious toward noon, and fully fif-
teen thousand people crowded the Polo Grounds
before the players stepped out on the field. A
perfect roar of applause greeted the entrance
of the rival teams, and as they lined out facing
one another not even the most indifferent could
help feeling the thrill of suppressed excitement
that trembled through the vast throng. The
game began, and for twenty-five minutes first
one side gained a slight advantage, then the
other, but neither had been able to score. The

Yale men had a slight advantage in position,
having forced the ball into Princeton's territory.
So manfully were they held from advancing
closer to the coveted goal, that people were be-
ginning to think that the game might result in a
draw, neither side scoring. At this point Yale
had possession of the ball. That slight change
in position, — that massing of the forwards to-
ward the center and the closing up of the back,
— that surely means something ! Yes, Princeton
sees it too, and eagerly her forwards press up in
the line with their eyes all centered on the back,
for it is evident he is to try a drop-kick for goal.
This bright-faced, boyish-looking fellow, with
a rather jaunty air, is Bull, Yale's famous drop-
kicker. He seems calm and quiet enough as

LAMAR AFTER PASSING VALE S TWENTY-FIVE- YARD LINE.

he gives a look of direction to the quarter and
with a smile steps up to the spot where he
wishes the ball thrown. There is a moment of
expectancy, and then the whole forward Hne
seems torn asunder, and through the gap comes
a mass of Princeton rushers with a furious dash,
but just ahead of them flies the ball, from the
quarter, straight and sure into Bull's outstretched
hands. It hardly seems to touch them, so
quickly does he turn the ball and drop it before
him, as with a swing of his body he brings him-

17-

IXTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

self into kicking attitude, and catching tlie ball
with his toe, as it rises from the ground, shoots it
like a bolt just over the heads of the Princeton
forwards, and — down he goes in the rush! The

m^^^^:

LAMAR. OF PRINCETON.

ball, however, sails smoothly on, high in the air,
just missing by a few feet the wished-for goal.
A sigh of relief escapes from the troubled
breasts of Princeton sympathizers as they realize
that, for a time, at least, the danger is past.
The Orange and Black bring the ball out for a
kick-out, and work desperately to force it up
the field, having had too vivid a realization of
danger to desire a repetition. Again, however,
they are driven steadily back until the Yale
captain thinks he is near enough to give Bull a
second opportunity, and at a signal the forma-
tion for a kick is again made. Bull, a little less
smiling, a trifle less jaunty in his air, again takes
his position. Again Princeton opens up the
line and drives her forwards down upon him,
but again that deadly drop sails over their
heads; this time a foot nearer the black cross-
bar. Another kick-out bv Princeton follows,

and another desperate attempt to force the
blue back to the center of the field, but with
a maddening persistency, and with a steady
plunging not to be checked, the gray and blue
line fights its way, \ard by yard, down upon the
Princeton territory. Captain Corbin glances
once more at the goal, sees that his line is
near enough, and again gives the signal. Bull
teps up for the third time, and his smile has
flown. He realizes that twice have his ten men
< arried the ball for him up to the very door
of victory, only to see him close that door in
their faces. His lips are firmly set as his resolve
shows itself in every line of his well-knit frame.
He settles himself firmly on his feet and gives
the signal for the ball to come. For the third
time the little quarter hurls it from under the
vcr)- feet of the plunging mass, and this time Bull
>cnds it true as a bullet straight over the cross-

bar between the posts. With a yell of dehght
the Yale men rush madly over the ropes and seize
the successful kicker. In the second half Bull
has but one opportunity; but he takes advantage
of that one to score another goal, and when the
game is over is borne off in triumph by the
rejoicing Yalensians, the hero of the day.

"YT

/-'

-^m.

'W The

-*^'

■/APEROR Q^OES

By M. Helen Lovett.

The Emperor sat in his chair of state ;
Round about did the courtiers wait.
With cues behind

And smiles before,
They bowed to the Emperor
Down to the floor.
The Emperor's visage was yellow of hue,

And half-shut eyelids his eyes peered

through.
A letter he read.

v'-^'&.\..''

~mm6:¥im

Then he nodded his head,

And, '■ Indeed it 's quite true," he frequently said.
For the letter described in words glowing like flame
Great Chinaland's glory, her Emperor's fame.

It came from Japan, from the Emperor there
(I don't know his name, but perhaps you don't

care),
And it went on to say,
In the pleasantest way:
'■ Good Brother of China, best greeting to-day.
I beg you '11 accept, as a verj- small token
Of my regard, which can never be spoken,
This coach and four.

From England, you see,
The Englishmen sent it
A present to me.
The kindly barbarians tendered me two ;
As I can't use both, I now send one to you."

Well pleased was the Emperor.

" Bring it up here.
You fellows, stand back there ! —

And make the
way clear."
" Pardon, Your Majesty,
That can not be ;

The coach will not go through the doorway, you
see."

1/4

HOW THE EMPEROR GOES.

[Dec.

There came a dark frown on the Emperor's
brow.
" Then I 'II go down, for I must see it now."

So down the stairs the Emperor ran,

And the courtiers followed, every man ;

As fast as they can they scuffle and run

After their master to see the fun.

After him, mind you, for you see.

The rule of the best society

Had been, for thousand of years and more:
" The Emperor always goes before."

The coach and four at the palace door
Was as large as life, or a size or two more.
With coachman and footman all complete.
And cushions of silk on the very best seat.
And round about in procession they walked,
And e.^amined it all, and stared and talked.
And the Emperor rubbed his hands with pride ■
" I '11 climb up in front there and take a ride."
But the coachman said, " Your Majesty,

The seat inside is for you, you see ;

The one in front 's where the driver sits — "

" WHAT ? This fellow is out of his wits.
Idiot ! Don't you know the rule ? —
Were n't manners taught when you went to

school ?
Remember this, if you know no more :
'The Emperor always goes before.'

" That highest £:eat
(Must I repeat?)

Is the one where the Emperor ought to go.
I can't ride aft.
And you must be daft,

HOW THE EMPEROR GOES.

175

For a moment to have fancied so ! "
And up on end each pigtail stood,
To think that the Emperor ever could,
Did, should, might or would
Ride behind. "Now, did you ever?"
" No, really, upon my word, I never."

"But how shall I drive, Your

Majesty ? "
"Through the windows, or, — I don't

care," said he.
"That is _y07/r business, I should say,
But hand those cushions up this

way. "
It could n't be helped, so off they

went.
The Emperor rode to his heart's

content.
But long did the Emperor rue that

day!
Of course the horses ran away,

And the Emperor, as you may

suppose.
Came to the ground on his royal

nose.
His royal brow had a bump for a

token.
And one of the royal legs was

broken.

All he could do

(What more could you ?)

Was to hang the coachman and

footman too.
And then the Emperor changed

the rule.
And now you would learn, if you

went to school
In Chinaland ('t is a proverb

reckoned),
■ We call \ijirst\\\\en the Emperor 's

second."

— ^

By Ida Warner Van der Voort.

The shadows of night he drifted over the valley and hill,
And earth is hushed and silent under the starlight still ;
A low-voiced breeze is complaining among the willows and reeds,
Where the brook creeps stealtjiily onward away through the flowery meads ;
The goldenrod 's drowsily nodding, heavy with dew and perfume,
The grasses are whispering tenderly their secrets in the gloom ;
When hark ! thro' the hush and the starlight, a low sweet note is heard —
A low sweet note, like the call of a dreaming, half-wakened bird ;
On the air it lingers a moment, then trembling passes away,
As a falling summer blossom floats down from the parent spray.
But again and again it rises, in tones ever stronger and stronger,
Calling, and calling, and calling, it grows ever louder and longer ;
And see ! from behind a hill-top the ruddy-faced moon appears.
As if she paused to listen to the strange sweet sounds she hears;
While dark against the brilliant disk a boyish form is seen.
An elfish, wild-eyed lad is he, with hair of a golden sheen ;
A bonny boy, most fair to see, and tucked beneath his chin
He holds, and plays with loving touch, a quaint old violin.
But what can bring him here to-night ? For whom does he wait and call ?
For whom are they meant, those pleading strains that softly rise and fall ?
There 's a sudden rustle of little feet within the dusky shade —
With timid approach, and swift retreat, a rabbit comes over the glade ;
Nearer, still nearer he comes, like stars are his eager eyes,
They glow thro' the gloom of the evening, filled with a shy surprise ;
And soon on every side are seen, eager, but half afraid.
The rabbits young, and rabbits old, of every size and shade,

176

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

177

' CLOSE TO THE FEET

OF THE PLAYER

THEV CREEP.'

Drawn by the notes so wild and weird, they gather from far and near;

Advancing, retreating, on they come, pausing to listen, and peer,

And prick their silken, sensitive ears, and turn each little head.

Starting in fright if a withered leaf but crackles beneath their tread.

Soon, however, their fear departs, and under the magic spell.

Close to the feet of the player they creep, while higher the wild notes swell,

Until, like one who wakes from a trance, the player stays his hand,

And his large dark eyes look dreamily over the charmed band.

A faint smile curves his rosy lips, he flings back his golden hair.

And, slowly rising, forward moves, through the mellow moon-lit air.

The rabbits, grasping harebell wands, alert and upright st.Tnd.

And playing a merry elfin march, he leads them through the land.

Past fields where the yellow corn-husks whisper in drowsy surprise;

Past vagrant vines' detaining arms, red with the autumn dyes;

178

AN AUTUMX REVET.

[Dec.

•PLAYING A MKRKV ELFIN MAKCH,

HE LEADS THEM THKOl'GH

THE LAND."

Through the bracken, and over a brook, and on till they reach

a dell
Deep in the heart of an odorous wood, where night has cast
its spell ;
A mossy glade where the mounting moon but glances through clustering trees,
And there, on a stately cabbage throne, the leader sits at ease,
While thronged about on every side, his furry followers sing.
As sweetly from their chiming bells a blithe refrain they ring :

" JVi: come from the T'allev, 7i<e come from the hill.
At thy summorn we rally to answer thy rcill.
]Ve hail, 7C'e hail thee with joyous delight,
We 'II dance 'neath the trees in the mystic tnoonlight.
For we come from the valley, we come from the hill.
At thv summons we rally to ansiuer thy will."

With a madder, merrier peal of bells, they gayly end their song,
The violin takes up the strain, and soon the little throng
Is whirling o'er the dewy sward to a waltz's dizzy measure.
And not a rabbit of them all but joins the dance with pleasure.
As round and round they wildly fly, one slips upon the moss ;
Her partner still whirls gayly on, unconscious of his loss.
Thus many couples come to grief: exhausted, down they sink.
Their heads spin round with giddiness the while they wink and blink.

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

At last, of all the jolly throng, one couple 's left alone,

And now an impish spirit seems to rule the music's tone.

Fast and furious flies the bow, the antics grow more mad ;

Such flapping ears and twinkling feet, — 't would make a hermit glad;

Such leaps, and bounds, and capers queer, their comrades grow excited.

And ring their bells applaudingly, and cheer them on, delighted.

179

"WE COME FROM THE VALLEY, WE COME FROM THE HILL."

At length the willful measures cease, the weary dancers pause,

And answer with triumphant smiles the well-deserved applause.

The fiddler now advances, the lucky pair are crowned.

As King and Queen of Rabbitland they '11 reign the whole year round.

Then some, of course, are envious, and mutter, "Are n't they proud! "

As the new-made monarchs proudly turn to greet the cheering crowd.

But when a stately air is played, all march up two by two.

i8o

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

Salute the royal couple, and for grace and favor sue.

A cheerful banquet now is served, composed of cabbage salad ;

(The way that cabbage disappeared would make a gardener pallid!)

The kind old moon, upon the wane, looks down and smiles benign,

In low and mystic monotone murmur the oak and pine.

But see! — once more the elfish lad shakes back his golden hair.

Draws bow across the singing strings. His summons cleaves the air.

[Dec.

'AND NOT A RABBIT OF THEM ALL BIT JOINS THE DANCE WITH PLEASURE.

The eager rabbits upward spring and each one grasps his bell.
And now begin the queerest games within the dim-lit dell.
One little bunny, long of ear, and with most roguish eyes,
Sits quite erect, while over him to leap each comrade tries ;

1889.]

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

181

"THE FIDDLER NOW ADVANCES, THE LLCKV F.AIK ARE CROWNED.

And one falls unexpectedly upon his precious head,

And lies a moment not quite sure if he 's alive or dead.

Another turns a somersault just as he 's nearly over,

And finds pine-needles, as a bed, can not compare with clover.

"A CHEERFUL BANQUET NOW IS SERVED, COMPOSED OF CABBAGE SALAD."

l82

AN AUTUMN REVEL.

i^is^'*^

'•AND NOW BEGIN THE QUEEREST CAMBS WITHIN THE DIM-LIT DEI.L."

They play a royal game of " tag," and " hide-and-seek " comes after,

While all the dusky woods resound with peals of rabbit laughter.

Some form a ring and dance about their harebells stacked together,

One dares to tickle the monarch's ear with downy bits of feather.

And shakes with mirth unbounded, as his Majesty flaps and twitches, —

Xo lover of fun would have missed the sight for all (lolconda's riches!

But now the music changes, the strain grows weirdly wild,

Then sinks, and almost dies away, in cadence soft and mild ;

A pause, and then an outburst so unrestrained and glad,

Each rabbit takes a partner and dashes off like mad.

And round and round, and to and fro, they gayly fly, until —

The tired old moon slips out of sight, and all is dark and still.

If •tlEBABE^eR.e-Tfie -ISafid^

By Francis Randall.

F the little toddling babies
\\'ere the makers of our lays,
You 'd find verses very difi'erent
In a thousand startling ways.
The babes would be exalted,
And the rest of us appear
As the secondary creatures
Of a very different sphere.
Just imagine that the baby
Wrote the songs we here have shown
And gave them to the world at large
From his little baby throne :

Be kind to the baby.

For when thou art old

Who '11 nurse thee so tender as he, —

Who '11 catch the first accents that fall from

thy tongue
Or laugh at thy innocent glee ?

Rock-a-bye, Papa,
On the tree-top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock ;
When the bough bends
The cradle will fall —
Down will come Papa
And cradle and all.
183

i84

IF THE BAUES WERE THE BAUDS.

Bye, Mamma Bunting,

Baby 's gone a-hunting.

Gone to get a rabbit-skin

To wrap the Mamma Bunting in.

Oh, Baby, dear Baby, come home with me now,

The clock in the steeple strikes one ;

You said you were coming right in from the yard,

As soon as your mud-pie was done.

The fire 's gone out : the house is all cold ;

And Mother 's been watching since tea,

With poor Father Jimmy asleep by the fire.

And no one to help her but me.

DAISY'S CALENDAR.

By Daisy F. Barry.

ID you ever keep a
calendar ? I have
kept one all this
year, and it has
given me so much
pleasure that I
have resolved to
keep one always
as long as I live.
I will tell you
how I came to keep it. For three or four years
past, my sister has been in correspondence with
the secretary of a society in which we are both
very much interested ; but she has been the
w'orking member, for, although I am the elder,
I am never quite well.

One New Year's Eve I received a letter from
the secretary telling me that he wished me to
keep a calendar. " It does n't matter for us
older ones," he said, " for our lives are tinted
with the sober grays of evening ; but you others,
you young ones, who never know what is coming
to you, are as happy as the song-birds one min-
ute, and ready to break your hearts the next
because of sorrow and disappointment. Your
lives are like pictures with brilliant lights and
deep shadows contrasted.

" Now it is a fact that all of us have more
bright spots than shadows in our lives, especially
while we are young, but as we grow older we
do not belie\'e it, perhaps because our sorrowful
moods are easier to remember than our joyful
ones ; but if you keep a record of the gleams
of gladness that brighten your life, you will be
astonished, when you look back, to find how
much happiness you have enjo)-ed,and then, too,
it will always be a pleasure to recall the memory
of past joys.

" The keeping of a calendar," he went on, " is
a very easy matter. All that you need is the
Vol. XVII.— 21. 185

calendar, a clean pen, and a bottle of red ink.
Every evening you take out your calendar, and,
if the day has been a happy one, draw a red
line all around the date; if it brought you only
some gleams of gladness, make a red dot for
every gleam; and if it was a day of sorrow un-
relieved by any brightness, leave the date blank,
surrounded only by its own black line."

Well, of course I was delighted with the idea,
and also with the calendar and pen which ac-
companied the letter ; and as New Year's Day
was a day of unalloyed gladness, although the
doctor kept me a close prisoner all the time, I
drew a red line all round the date.

Since then my brother has had a long illness,
and my mother broke down under the strain of
nursing him, and me, for I was ill too ; but for
all that, if you could only see how my calendar is
illuminated with red all through, you would be
convinced that my life is a happy one; and I do
really believe that it is all the brighter for my
calendar. It forces me to notice the bright mo-
ments that come every day, and which would
otherwise be lost in the shadows.

The calendar I have, however, was not in-
tended for " keeping." It does very well to
show which days were happy and which were
not, but there is no space for writing a word or
two to tell the cause of the pleasure or why
some of the dates are left blank ; but next year
there will, perhaps, be a calendar made expressly
for the use I have described. I suppose I am
the first who ever kept such a calendar. Keep-
ing a diary is quite another matter. There ought
to be a space with each date for a few words to
explain the causes of the brightness of some days,
and the colorlessness of others.

I hope that next year everybody will keep a
calendar, for I feel quite sure that all who do so
will find great pleasure in it.

FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

By H. Butterworth.

Glory in the Highest " be sung in an

anteroom or choir-gallery, this dialogue may be used
as a recitation, with musical accompaniment.

" Where have you come from, Mabel mine,
While the stars still shine, the stars still
shine,
With a happy dream in those eyes of thine,
Early, this Christmas morning ? "

" I 've just come back from Slumber-land ;
1 've come from the night in Slumber-land ;
I 've come from the stars in Slumber-land ;
I 've come from the music in Slumber-land,
Early, this Christmas morning."

" What did you see there in the night,

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? "
" I saw a stable and star-lamp's light,

Early, this Christmas morning.

" I saw a stable in Slumber-land,

And a little Babe A\-ith a snow-white hand.
And 'round the Babe the dumb beasts stand.
Early, this Christmas morning."

" AMiat did you hear in Slumber-land,

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? "
" Music, Mother, a song divine,

Early, this Christmas morning."

l86

FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

" ■Wliat was the song that tlie voices sung,

■•V\^;^^vSS^J " ^^'l^^t ^^-as the song that tlie voices sun-
<\ y^c^Wl ^^ '"'" '"■^' """ '^^^'^ th^ 'o^^ ^ta^s hung ;

^« D-^ \ V^ '' •'''*" ^'™°^' ^^^" " ^'''^ '" the sky,

\J<^3ik\ \' 'Listen, listpn ti,o cfw„.- ,j__ •' , .

187

■Listen, Hsten,— the strain draws nigh !
' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' "

" ^^'hat else did you see in Slumber-land,

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? "
" I saw the shepherds listening stand,

Early, this Christmas morning."

" What said the shepherds there on the plain ? "
" They touched their reeds and answered the strain
' Glory m the highest ! Glory ! '
\\-hen the angels ceased, the shepherds sung

' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! '
And the earth and sky with the anthem rung,
' Glory m the highest ! Glory I '"

" O Mabel, Mabel, your dream was sweet,
And sweet to my soul is your story ;
Like the shepherd's song let our lips repeat
' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' "

EDITORIAL NOTES.

" Plkase give us some more stories by Miss Alcott —
we want so much another long serial by Miss Alcotl,"
was the request that came to us again and again from
hundreds of our young readers in the years lately flown ;
and again and again their beloved author complied, striv-
ing to meet their demand — in heart and will devoted to
her faithful work. And now that she can tell them no
more, a truer story than them all has been sent out to
the world by Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston — a
story told by her own earnest and inspiring life : " Louisa
M<iy Alcott : Her Life, Letters, and Journals. Edited by
Ednah 1). Cheney."

The book will endear her more than ever to thousands of
boys and girls, for in some respects it is like a new part
of "Little Women," appealing also to the now grown-up
generation of early admirers of the brave and good

" March" family. The pages contain two excellent por-
traits of Miss Alcott, and facsimiles of some of her letters.

Jack-i.\-thePulpit, who has, this month, given his
two pages to Mr. Butterworlh's " For Christmas Day,"
will greet his merry crowd again in the January number.

He bids us give you, all, his compliments and the
best wishes of the season And he also asks us to correct
an error that slipped into his sermon last month. The
credit of those big Thanksgiving pumpkins, he says, be-
longs to Southern California, not to Nebraska. The
photograph that came to liim had, by some oversight,
been wrongly inscribed — and he says no one can judge
merely by the expression of a pumpkin's face where in
the world it comes from. Everything depends upon its
being properly presented.

THE LETTER-BOX.

Tacoma, W. T.

My Dear St. Nichoijis: You will consider me a
pretty Urge "boy," I fancy, to write letters to the St.
Nicholas, when I tell you that I am a full-grown man
of twenty, already in business. But I thought it might
interest your young re.iders to get a letter from this far
distant but most beautiful " City of Destiny," as it is
called. We — my brother and myself — have taken your
magazine ever since the first number was issued, and we
have every volume complete, neatly bound. So much do
we value it, that we shall continue subscribers as long
as we live, and we hope our children and grandchildren
may enjoy it as much as we do. ^'ou published, some
years ago, a letter we sent to you, as having been ihc /rst
chiUren to ni.ike the ascent of Mount Marcy, the highest
peak of the .\dirondacks, in 1S77. I wish you had space
to publish all I should like to write .about this wonder-
fully thriving city on the shores of Puget Sound, not very
far from Alaska, and the region made famous by the
Arctic exploring expeditions. I should like to interest
the children of the East in the beautiful I'acific Coast
country in this section of the land, so wonderful in its
developments, so fertile in resources.

I hope to attempt the ascent of Mount Tacoma, over
fourteen thousand feet high and always snow-capped,
and, if I do, will give you my experience.

I will just mention that there are few, if any, birds
here ; no cats except such as are brought from other
places, and a scarcity of dogs.

But I have taken up too much space already, although
there is much of absorbing interest to young and old that
I could write about from this distant part of our Union.

Very sincerely, your "old" boy, W. A. B .

MORRISTOWN, N. J.

Dear St. Nicholas : Morriston n is a very pretty
and healthy place, about thirty miles from New York ;
and there are many beautiful places here. There is a
very fine girls' school, which I attend.

1 will now tell you about my pets. I have one kitten
and three turtles. My kitten, "Bright Eyes," is a small,
gray striped kitten, jly turtles are "Apollo," " Diana,"
and "Venus " Apollo is an orange and black turtle.
I have not tamed him very well yet, and he is quite

cross. Diana is yellow and black, and exceedingly gentle,
and feeds out of my hands. Venus is my little water-
turtle. His back is black, with small, bright orange spots
on it, and underneath it has three stripes, two black and
one a sort of pinkish orange. He also feeds out of my
hands. Turtles like to eat all kinds of berries, meat, and
some vegetables. They sleep very soundly, and some-
times snore. Your constant reader, K .

New River, White Sulphur, Va.
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little girl, eleven years
old, and I have been spending a month at these Springs
with my mother and father, and my three brothers and
my sister Grace. The Indians used to call the New
River"rhe River of Death." It is so dangerous, though
very beautiful. Here it flows through cliffs three hun-
dred feet high. They are of perpendicular gray rock,
and clothed with lovely vines, and, with dark cedars
springing up in every nook, are just like huge ruined
castles. .At the foot of the cliffs the river runs so deep it
has never been sounded. Seven miles from here is Moun-
tain Lake — a salt hike three thousand feet above the
level of the sea — at the top of all the mountains, and from
the top of" Bald Knob," one of them, you can see five
States. When Sr. Nicholas came here this month, we
each of us were willing to take care of our two-year-old
brother three hours, for the sake of reading it. And
Mother said she wished it would come every day. She
did not think we would be like the little girl who became
so sick of Christmas. The presents this St. NichoLj\s
brings of splendid stories are so much more durable than
those of the other St. Nick.

Aflfectionately, your friend, Anna C. S .

DU.NMORE, Pa.
My Dear Friend St. Nicholas : I have intended
for quite a long time to tell you about my " Mother
Goose " scrap-book. My first idea of it came when I
re.id the article in the August number, for 18S3. It was
called " Home-made Mother Goose," and proposed that
all who were wear)' of pasting their advertisement cards
in books, should make a book of linen, and use cards and

THE LETTER-BOX.

parts of them cut out, to illustrate the ■' Mother Goose "
melodies. Well, I concluded to try it, and only now, in
1SS9, is my book completed. To begin with, I m.ide a
book out of paper-musUn, which had twenty-two leaves,
and I used but one side of the page. It was no easy
matter, for I often waited months for a particular part
I needed. My friends all remembered me, and looked
out for figures. I remember, in the rhyme, " One, two,
buckle my shoe," when I came to " Eleven, twelve, toil
and delve," I could find nothing that was suited for it.
At last I found a card, of some children playing on the
sea-shore. I put two rhymes on a page, except when
they were long. Now, I did not think that the book
would be very satisfactory without the words ; so I
printed in the rhyme with water-colors. I soon found
that red and blue were the best to work with. It was
rather hard to use a brush on the muslin, for, unless great
care was taken, the letters would be dauby. Tlie words
are printed right in with the picture, around it, and all
sides of it.

"Climbing up the Golden Stairs" was very popular at
that time, so here I used my darky cards. I illustrated
the first verse. The " golden stairs " are pieces of gilt
paper, pasted in like steps, which go up to the top of the
page. One of the darkies is stepping up, playing on a
tambourine. A little fellow is falhng off the last step.
He looks exceedingly surprised; while "Aunt Dinah"
is traveling slowly and surely upward. The "Dude" is
as dudish as one could wish, while " Old Peter " is ready
to hand you "the ticket," which happens to be a pass on
the D. L. and W. R. R., over " Hoboken Ferry." I had
such a time to find any " half a dollar," but a friend pro-
cured a pictured one from a bank-book, which " Sambo "
offers in his outstretched hand. At last, last winter I
finished it, and had it bound with a dark red, flexible
cover. I named it " Pluckings from Mother Goose, by
One of Her Goslings," and I dedicated it to my Uttle
sister. Nan. and her large darky doll, "TopS)'."

We children enjoy you so much, and never get tired
of reading over the old stories. I wish that Mrs. Dodge
would write us another story. Hers are so enjoyable.
We all liked the story that has just finished, "A Bit of
Color," and agree that " Betty" must have been a lovely
girl ; one we should like to know.

The town of Dunmore is two miles from Scranton.
We have two different lines of electric cars running into
the town, wliich make it seem very near to Scranton.
Our ugly-looking culm piles are being utilized as
"plants" for the making of electricity. When we go
away, and see the " horse-cars," they seem very much
"behind the times."

I would like to know whether any one else tried the
" Mother Goose " scrap-book, and with w-hat success.

Well, good-bye, dear St. Nicholas, and with many
wishes for a long and happy life to you, I am,

Vour sincere friend, Helen M .

Alameda, Cal.

Dear St. Nicholas : I would like to write a letter
to my dear and esteemed friend, St. Nicholas, hoping
that its constant readers may see this in the " Letter-
box." I am a man near fifty-eight years old, and its
readers may not think a man of my age should write a
letter to a magazine of its class. I like the story of
"Grandpapa's Coat," and " Laetitia and the Redcoats,"
which we understand to be the British of those times.
I shall always esteem it as my home friend. I have
several volumes and will have them bound. I remain.
Your constant reader, Josephus P .

P. S. — If proper, place this letter in "Letter-box."
I enjoyed the two stories above, and could n't help
reading them over and over again.

189

Lakeside, Lake O.vtario, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: We — a family of six — are
spending the four summer months on the shore of
beautiful blue Ontario. It is a quiet place, about forty
miles from Niagara Falls, with a dozen or so cottages,
and a low, rambling hotel among the trees.

My mother, sister, and myself are very fond of walking,
and take long tramps, seeing the country and the people,
which latter we often find amusing. Our longest tramp
was to Albion, a town ten miles away, and back the same
day. We were only three and a half hours going in, but
longer coming back.

We went one day to see an old lady who still spins
and weaves her own linen and cotton. She was im-
mensely amused to learn where we lived, and said, " To
think o' comin' all the way from Washington, to go to
the mouth o' Johnson's Creek ! You must ha' been hard
up ! " She thought the President lives in the Capitol.

Another old lady told Mother she had never been away
from the farm a day since she was married, but added,
proudly, that she " was born south of here." Inquiry
revealed the fact that she " had been born on a farm two
miles south of here," and only left it for her present
home.

We have found several odd localisms, one of which is,
" quite a few," meaning a large number, and another,
" right smart and away of a walk," means a long distance.

In June, I made a study of tadpoles, putting several into
an improvised aquarium. They were almost black, about
an inch long, and it was very interesting to see first the
hind legs come out, then the fore legs, and, finally, the tail
dwindle to nothing. At that stage they were brown, with
dark spots, and barely half an inch long. I let them go,
and they hopped round the road and fields. Their com-
rades in the little pond had all developed, and were
likewise hopping in the fields.

Now, a few weeks ago, as I was w^atching the odd
water-animals there, I saw two gray-green tadpoles, or
pollywogs, nearly three inches long, with undeveloped
legs. And, recently, a brilliant green froglet, about an
inch and a half long, has come up to greet me. Can any
country boy or girl tell me whether the smaller ones were
toads? And which is the correct name — tadpoles or
pollywogs ?

If I have made my letter too long, dear St. Nicholas,
as I fear, could you please find room for the lafet part ?
I was going to write to " Jack-in-the-Pulpit," and ask
him about the " tads," but he seemed to be taking a
vacation with the rest of his congregation.

It is needless to tell you how much you are enjoyed,
from Grandpa to the youngest. With best wishes for
St. Nicholas, from Edith F. K .

Orange, N. J.

Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken your charming
magazine for seven or eight years, since I was only four
years old. That was while we were in Germany. How
glad we were to see it every month, and how we did
enjoy " Lord Fauntleroy"! Some of our German and
English friends enjoyed the magazine, too, very much,
and since we came back we sometimes send it over to
Munich. I studied drawing there, and I hope, some
day, to be able to illustrate for dear St. Nicholas.

This spring we set a hen on ducks' eggs ; only one
came out, and the mother took care of it as long as she
was shut up in a coop. When the mother was let out,
she left her little duck of three weeks. Another hen,
with seven chickens, at once went to the little duck's
coop and took care of it at night, and took it about with
her family all day. We thought she was so kind, but to
our surprise, after ten days, when she had taught the
duck to look after her chickens, she left them to the
entire care of the little orphan nurse. We found that it

190

THE LETTER-BOX.

was ihe duck that deserved praise, for, although she is
full-grown now, she never goes around with the other
ducks, but slill takes care of these now large chickens,
and sleeps in their coop at night. Is that not a remark-
able duck ?

Your devoted reader, G. B. C .

having been in danger so much as she minded her hair
being burned off. Now, this is all I remember. So,
good-bye.

I remain, your affectionate reader,

Klizabeth Pay.ne S .

St. Paul, Minn.

Dear St. Nicholas : I wonder if any of your little
readers ever had such a nice present as mine on my
ninth birthday, — a full set of St. Nicholas, hand-
somely bound ! That was a year ago, and I think there
has not been a day since when they have not been used
by my brother or myself. It would be hard to tell what
we like best. We like it all.

I live fourteen hundred miles from my grandma's and
grandpa's, uncles' and aunties', but I go to see them nearly
every year. The boys and girls have great fun there in
the winter-time. We never think of staying in the house
here because it is cold. If we have an ice palace this
winter, I will send any of your subscribers, who will
send me a stamp, a good picture of the palace.

I hope to take you as long as I live, and then leave
you to my children.

Truly your friend, MARION W .

Constantinople, Turkey.

Dear St. Nicholas : .V little while ago I went to a
Greek christening, and I thought that perhaps you would
like to hear about it. Sometimes it takes place in a
house and sometimes m a church. The one I saw was
in the house. This is the w.iy it was done :

First, two priests came in with a man, who carried a
large metal thing on his back which looked something
like a b,-ith. This was the font. He put it down in the
middle of the room and filled it with warm water and
oil. While he was doing this, the priests let down their
hair and put on their robes. Then one took the baby,
which was quite naked, and dipped it three limes in the
font, saying prayers at the same time. After that it was
taken out and put into a lot of clean, new linen and given
to the godfather, who walked three limes round the
font with the child in his arms, while the priests scat-
tered incense about and said some more prayers. Then
the mother took the baby and bound it up tightly in long
bands, tied a little muslin cap on its head, and put it to
bed. At the beginnin;; each guest received a lighted
candle to hold ; and when it was over they gave every
one a little piece of money which had a hole in it and a
piece of blue and white ribbon tied to it. You are ex-
pected to pin this upon your dress till you go away.
They gave the guests sweets. Sometimes instead of
money they have little silver crosses. The godfather or
godmother provides everything — the baby's dress and
clothes, the sweets and crosses, and also gives the baby
a present. The candles are rather dangerous, xs they
give them to little children as well as grown people. A
little child behind me burned off some of her front hair.
She did not burn very much off, as I caught sight of her
just in time, and I told the mother, who was very much
disgusted. But she did not seem to mind the child's

Mardin, Turkey in Asia.
My Dear St. Nicholas: I am twelve years old, and
have taken you for three years, and enjoy you very much.
To get to me, you have to ride on horseback six hundred
miles, for the post is brought by horses from Samsoon.on
the Black Sea, to Mardin, and takes them from nine to
ten days. From where our houses stand, we can see
the plain of Mesopotamia stretching away to the south,
as far as the eye can reach, and hundreds of miles far-
ther. A few months ago a parly of us went down on the
Clain to a village named Dara — supposed to have been
uill by Darius, the great king. It is all in ruins now.
We saw the remains of immense buildings. One was
said to have been the palace of the king. Another was
entirely underground. It is thought it was a prison.
There was the ruin of a reservoir large enough to supply
the whole city with water during a long siege. The city
was surrounded by a great wall, high and wide, and out-
side of the wall was a large moat. Right through the
city is the bed of a large river, which is now but a small
stream. Across it is a bridge that has lasted to this time.
It has two tracks, as if they were worn by chariot wheels.
On the tops ofmany of the ruins were storks" nests. There
is a small village there now. The people that live in it
are all Moslems. It took us — or rather we took — two
days to ride there; it is only eighteen miles from here.
But we went out for a good time, and did not hurry.
I have an .Xrabian colt, only two years old, that I ride
nearly every day ; his name, in Arabic, is " Karrumful,"
meaning Clirves. My sister Minnie, four years younger
than myself, has a little white Bagdad donkey named
" Filfil," meaning Pepper.

I^st you get tired of me, I will bid you good-bye for
this time, always wishing, dear St. Nicholas, the best
of success. I am ever your true friend,

Nellie E. T .

We thank the young friends whose names here follow
for pleasant letters received from them : Eunice O., Ella
G. S., Blanche Keat, John D. M., Adele and Jessie,
Alice Putnam, Marion Clothier, May N. H., Marguerite
B., Gertrude C. P., Freddy R., Marion E. S.. " Evie,"
Ernestine Bobbins, Anna FitzGerald, Allan Moorfield,
C. L. Darling, Frank D. C, Sacka de T. Jones, Maria
de T. Jones, .-Mlerton Cushman Crane, Daisy A. Sylla,
K. B , Lola Barrows, Fannie L. H., Matchie Willing-
ham, Etta Levy, Lillie Jacobs, Kathleen Howard, Mabel
Maynard, Patty Gregg, P. L. D., Isabel C, W. Palmer,
Olive Knibbs, L. L. W., Alta Fellows and Ruth Myers,
" Ethel." Nora Walker, E. C. Wood, Mary B. Tartt, Marie
Buchanan, Sadie F., Lionel Ilein, Kate J., .^nna N. H.,
Eloise and Lucienne, Maude D., Daisy S., Lizzie W.
Leary, Hattie S. Fitch, R. M. and A. F., Bessie Long-
bridge, Mary Caldwell, Ravmond Buck, Maud C. Max-
well.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE NOVEMBER NUMBER.

Rhomboid. Across: i. Porte. 2. Harms. 3. Games.

4. Peris. 5. Tenor.

Pi. 'T is the time

Wlien the chime
Of the season's choral band is ringing out.
SmoI<y brightness fills the air,
For the light winds everywhere
Censers full of flowery embers swing about.
There is sweetness that oppresses,
As a tender parting blesses ;
There 's a softened glow of beauty,
.\s when Love is wreathing Duty ;
There are melodies that seem
Weaving past and future into one fair dream.
Lucy Larcom, " The Indian Summer."
Quadruple Acrostic. First row, demeans; second,
oversee ; fifth, accuses ; sixth, leeside. Cross-words :
I. Dorsal. 2. Evince. 3. Menace. 4. Erebus. 5. Assisi.
6. Needed. 7. Setose.

Word-square, i. Doses. 2. Obole. 3. Solid. 4. Eliza.

5. Sedan. Charade. Whole-some.

Numerical E.vigma.

There 's not a flower on all the hills,
The frost is on the pane.
Illustrated Acrostic. Bryant. Cross-words :
I. caBbage. 2. haRness. 3. toYshop. 4. crAvats.

5. caNteen. 6. buTtons. Riddle. Pillow.

Diagonal Puzzle. Thomson, i. Tempest. 2.tHroned.
3. moOrish. 4. diaMond. 5. modeSty. 6. kingdOm.

7. ruffiaN.

Broken Words. Thanksgiving, Old Homestead.
I. Turn Over. 2. Hire Ling. 3. Anti Dote. 4. Night
Hawk. 5. Keels On. 6. Sides Man. 7. Gods End.

8. Inter Scribe, g. Vesper Tine. 10. Imp End. 11. Not
Able. 12. Glad Den.

Double Acrostic. Primals, Capratina ; finals,
Dindymene. Cross-words : I. CarotiD. 2. .\lfierl.
3. PenguiN. 4. RumoreD. 5. AbilitY. 6. TransoM.
7. ImpingE. 8. NankeeN. 9. .'\ndantE.
Proverb Puzzle.

May good digestion wait on appetite,
-■^nd health on both.

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th
of each month, and should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East
Seventeenth St., New York City.

Answers to all the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from
Arthur Gride — Paul Reese — Maude E. Palmer — J. Russell Davis — Pearl F. Stevens — A Family Affair —
Jamie and Mamma — Mamma, .Aunt Martha, and Sharley — Nellie L. Howes — Maxie and Jackspar — " Wit and
Humor" — Blanche and Fred — Helen C. McCleary — Jo and I — Henry Guilford — Ida C. Thallon — Mathilde,
Ida, and Alice.

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th. from J. Norman
Carpenter, i — L. T., i — Emma Sydney, S — .Arthur B. Lawrence, 4 — M. E. W., 1 — Clara and Emma, i — M.
H., I — Papa and Honora, I — Susy I. Myers, 2 — May Cadwallader, I — Guy H. Purdy, 3 — Sadie and
Mary F., 2 — M. H. V., 5 — Kitty, Bessie, and Eugene. 3 — R. M. and A. F., i — Elsie Rosenbaum, 2 —
" Wamba, Prince Charming, and Molly Bawn," 5 — John W. Frothingham,Jr.,4 — " Karl and Queen Elizabeth," 8 —
Gita and Pink, 9 — Clara and O. , 4 — Charlie Rata and Ernie Sharp, 4 — " We Two," 8 — B. F. R.,9 — Sissie Hun-
ter, 3 — Marion S. Dumont, 2 — J. M. Wright, 5 — "May and 79," 8 — Irvin V. G. Gillis, 10 — Albert E. Clay,
10 — "AH of Us," 3 — Jim, Tom, and Charlie, 10 — Efiie K. Talboys, 7 — Carrie Holzman, 2 — Gert and Fan, 6-^
G. Goldfrank, 7 — Adrienne Forrester, 5 — Nagrom, 3 — Katie Guthrie, 3 — Eleulhera Smith, 5 — .A. A. Smith, i —
Three American Readers, 4 — Kendrick Family, i — No Name, Conn., 5 — A. W. Bartlett, I — G. Harwood, 6.

A PENTAGON.

I. In muscular. 2. Reverence. 3. Songs or tunes.

4. A wooden instrument used for cleaning flax. 5. Gold
coins of the United States. 6. To become unconscious.
7. To discover. F. s. F.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

The letters in each of the following thirteen groups
may be transposed so as to form one word. When these
are rightly guessed they will answer to the following
definitions: i. Relating to color. 2. Half a poetic verse.
3. -A name for buttercups, given them by Pliny, because
the aquatic species grow where frogs abound. 4. Just.

5. Benumbed. 6. Shaped like a top. 7. The summer

solstice, June 21. 8. Mineral pitch. 9. Layers of earth
lying under other layers. 10. The more volatile parts of
substances, separated by solvents. 11. Accused. 12. The
goddess of discord. 13. The utmost point.

1. I match roc.

2. She hit mic.

3. I run clan U.

4. A limp rat. I.

5. Fed, I set up.

6. I run at Bet.

7. Rimm mused.
S. Put a sham L.
9. As tar tubs.

10. I rust cent.

11. Dime peach.

12. Cari is odd.

13. Extry time.

When the above letters have been rightly transposed,
and the words placed one below the other, the primals
will spell a festal time, and the finals will spell an anni-
versary of the Church of England, held on the 2Sth of
December. f. s. f.

I9i

THK RIDULK-BOX.

'> ■

vi\ jmcuuch in iV^- .ilvno lUuvir.ition may
be V a »or\1 of h\T letters. When these sire

ri^ i anil placcvl one below the other, in the

orvlei licie };ht:h. the letters fn>m I to Jo t.i> indicatevl in
the »>.w.>mr>an\-ing iliagTan*^ *'" *t<ll 'he name of an
eniinenl scnolar anvi Jivine who wa> liorii IVccmber i?.
1S15

Across; i. In Chinaman. 2. A pert to«n>nian. 5.
An old »-orvl meanini; the crown of the head. 4. The
Indian twme for a lake. 5. .\ prize given at^ H.'ir\-arJ
I'nix-ersitv. 6, A masculine nickname. 7. In l,~hinaman.

iVnvxwvKl*: I. In Chinaman. J. .\ capsule of a
plant. _v A printer's mark showing that something
js interlmcvl. 4. Men enrviUe^l for military discipline.
5. .\ librous puHiuct of Braril. 6. The first half of a
w-ord meanini; «rv warm. 7. In Chinaman.

H. AMI B,

novnij-; vrsvi. acrostic.

.\l,t of the cross-words are of cqu-il length. When
they ha\-c been rightly guessed and plaocvt one below the

I , »n the order here gi\Tn. the

l.i»t row of letters. re.iding up-

war<l, « ill S|K-11 si>mclhini; often

read " "' ' ' ■ : the

riiw ticxl to t ^< ar\l,

will v|>ell some -:,, aI this

timo ot the year.

Ck>>ss woRHS: I. Flourishing. 2. A
c\>miviny of sinjjcrs. 3. A nyyv with a
n^x^se. 4. The " W iiard of the North."
5. Baffles, b. Small, insect-eating mani-
m.ils. 7. .\ great artery of the body. 8,
.K maxim or aphorism. 9- Silica.

POT PKERYBINC.LE.
PI.

YaINISAR sklapNCt dole,
Krarubly strigtel.
Charm mosce ni. a dydum 1
Kijvil Kiss n.id slirett ;
I' ■' ' K-s reh dribsc-daim yam,
^ 1- wiht seros stewe;

N : Ami fo wen-monw yha,
Knth hot scwi-a fo delgon hcwta,
Tenh elh selentin fo lall :
Hent teh rawzid thmon fo lal ;
Neih het seridfie swogl, d.m enth
Cashslrim scome ot hater aniga.

mA««i>".vi,

The di.agi->nals, from the upix-r left hand corner to the
lower rigtii-hand corner, spell the surname of a famous
musician Ivrn in 1 7^6.

CKviss-woRr>s : i. Central, a. .\ botly of .tboul li\«
hundreil soldiers. %. .\n enchanter. 4. .\ country of
North .\merica. 5. To expand. 6. .\ parcel.

clotU,

\ tSKV rCKSS ^I^VV NOKK-

Coy-lpjVV

V TTOR \ NEW YEAR-
READV FOR -^

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XVII.

JANUARY, 1890.

No. 3,

By Harriet Prescott Spofford.

IGH in the mountain.s where we went

To have our Christmas among the snows,
The far white slopes stretched up the sky

Where the young moon sank and the great stars rose ;
And with every gust of the long slow wind

The forests of fir from root to crown
Made murmuring music, and softly shook

A cloud of sifted silver down.
But round the hearth of the room within,

Like the cherub throng of some heavenly choir,
The children clustered, and held their breath

While their father hghted the yule-log fire.

The little flames crackled and crisped and curled.
And sweet were the cries from the happy crew,

.As higher and higher the blue smoke twirled,
And then what a blaze the great log threw,

196

THE VULE-LOGS SONG.

[Jan.

What a glory swept up the chimney shaft.

And vanished into the vast night-blue !
And the raftei^ stained out of the gloom '

With all their festooning apple-strings,
With the silver skin of their onion-stalks,

Their crook-necked squash, and their herby
things.
And tlie gleam glanced high on the powder-
horn.

And the king's-arm flung back a startled light,

Thank God for Christmas I" the father said,
.\nd the mother, dropping her needles, turned,

Thank God for Christmas, for roof, for fire ! "
She answered him, and the yule-log burned.

On roared the billowy flames ; the sparks
In shining showers up the darkness whirled ;

.\nd the sap on the great ends stood like beads,
And bubbled and simmered and hummed and
purled.

Vv-t)*^

iHt,K LHjHlbU IHt ^ L Lt-L'Jt. hlKt..

And the face of the clock was like the moon
Red in the mists of the August night.

While all the depth of the dusky room

Was full of the firelight's blush and bloom.

The grandame's hair like the aureole
Of any saint in a picture showed.

And a wreath of roses about her there
The frolickintj children's faces slow-ed.

.\nd its thin note quavered and swelled and
sighed,
And tuned and twittered and rippled along.

■ The worm is dying," the children cried.
" Oh, hush! " said the grandame; " you do it

wrong, — "
And they bent to listen, all eager-eyed, —
" Hush, 't is the yule-log singing his song ! "

THE YULE-LOG S SONG.

197

And the place with a sudden warble rang
And this is the song the yule-log sang :

" Far in forest glades I grew,
Fed on draughts of noontide dew ;
Passed the spotted snake's low lair,
Passed the browsing of the bear.
Fresher branches thrust each year,
Passed the antler of the deer,
Till space and sun and solitude
Made me king of all the wood.

" Then, my lower branches laid
In a mighty depth of shade.
Glad my tops the sun descried
Coursing up the great earth's side.
Knew the cloud's phantasmal forms,
Wrestled with a thousand storms,
Proudly bore victorious scars.
And measured lances with the stars !

" Twice a hundred years the snow
Her white and glimmering veils did throw
Round me ; moonbeams touched my spires
With a light of frosty fires ;
Knee-deep in the summer fern
Twice a hundred years return,
And into leaf my full plumes burst
Green as when they bourgeoned first.

" Spices of the sun-soaked wood
Rose about me where I stood ;
Gums their richest resin cast
On every wind that wandered past ;
Blossoms shed their petals sweet
In balmy drifts about my feet ;
Berried fragrance filled the gloom,
And the wild grape's ambrosial bloom.

" Here the bee went blundering by
Honey-drunk, the butterfly
Flittered, — ah, what songs I heard
Shrilling from the building bird !
How all little life did house
Securely in my sheltering boughs
That drew the green walls close when there
The great hawk hung in upper air !

" Still the dawn, the star-flame old.
That steeped me through and through, I

hold,
The gladness wrought in every root
While the wood-thrush blew his flute,
And music ordering all my art
With sorrow fit to break the heart
When the summer night was still
And far off mourned the whippoorwill.

" Now, my wealth of centuried hours, —
Memory of summer showers.
Bloom and song and leaf and wing, —
Upon this yule-tide hearth I fling.
All the life that filled my year
I bring back to the Giver here,
Burning gladly in His name
The hoarded sunshine of my flame ! "

And the children listened, but all was still ;

A core of heat was the yule-log's heart.
And into the ashes the live coals dropped

Like rubies that flash and break apart ;
And the shadows skimmed up the darkening
wall.

And the wind brought a clamor of music near.

And the stars themselves bent down to hear.

While out in the valley far below
The peal of the Christmas-bells rang clear.

MAY BARTLETT'S STEPMOTHER.

Bv XokA Perkv.

Chapter IV.

AT II V BOND was
spending the first va-
cation of the autumn
with her " dear May,"
as she had been in

the habit of caHing
May since the inti-
macy that had sprung up between them.

The girls who lived at a distance from Hill--
side generally remained at the seminary through
the shorter vacations. Cathy Bond's home was
two days' journey from the school. The Macy
sisters and Susy Morris also lived at a distance,
and the four hitherto had spent their vacations
together at the seminary. Cathy's invitation
had come about in this way :

" I 'm glad I don't have to spend my vaca-
tions at the seminary, as some of the girls do,"
May had happened to say one day to her father.
Mrs. Bartlett, who was present, had looked up
and remarked quickly :

'• It must be ver)' forlorn for them." And
when May had answered with emphasis, " It
is forlorn," Mrs. Bartlett had surprised her by
saying :

" Why don't you invite one of them to spend
the week wnth you ? "

•' But — but," Mav stammered, " Papa does n't
like it."

" Papa does n't like what ? " then inquired
Mr. Bartlett. waking up from his absent-mind-

edness. May explained, and related how she
had begged for this privilege of hospitality be-
fore, only to be told that it could n't be. Her
father laughed at the recital, and then astonished
her by this speech :

" Oh, well, that was last year ! I could n't
have two giddy young things turned loose in
the house then ; I should have been totally
neglected, if not trampled upon. Now, you
.see, I 've somebody to be company for me,
while you neglect me."

" Oh, Papa ! do you mean, that now — "

"Yes; now, if you like," nodding and smil-
ing at her.

" And I hope," said Mrs. Bartlett, smihng
also, " that you will invite that pretty, bright-
faced Cathy Bond."

Cathy Bond ! The color in May's cheeks
and her embarrassed look showed Mrs. Bart-
lett that something was amiss, and she imme-
diately remarked :

" Of course it makes no difference to me, my
dear, which of your friends you invite, but I re-
membered this one particularly, and I thought
her your favorite, from seeing her more with )ou
than the others."

" Oh, yes ; yes, she is," was May's rather
confused reply.

And this is the way it came about that Cathy
spent the vacation with her " dear May."

" After she has talked as she has, I should n't
think she 'd feel much like going there to visit,"
Joanna exclaimed indignantly to her sister Elsie.

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

199

And at last something of this kind was said to
Cathy herself, who retorted that she was going
to visit May at May's invitation, and not the step-
mother. Perhajjs it was this last sharp word
that sharpened Cathy's temper, and sent her on
her visit with her prejudices more aUve than ever.

" That pretty, bright-faced girl," Mrs. Bart-
lett had said; and Cathy was all that, — pretty
and bright-faced; but when she sat at table
that first night of her visit, Mrs. Bartlett felt a
vague sense of disappointment in her. She
had seen her only a moment or two at different
times when she had called upon May, and then
her pretriness and brightness had impressed Mrs.
Bartlett very favorably. But as she sat at table,
there was a sort of forward smartness, a too self-
possessed, grown-up-ish air in what she said and
did, to suit fasridious, well-bred people.

" Oh, dear," thought Mrs. Bartlett, '• what a
pity! — and such a nice-looking girl," and then,
" perhaps this is one reason why May has such
a forbidding way with her."

And while these thoughts were passing
through Mrs. Bartlett's mind, Cathy with her
sharpened temper was pluming herself upon
her manners, and upon taking a stand against
the stepmother. " I shall be polite," she had
said to herself; "but I shall not be sweet and
cordial, and I shall let them see that May has
a real, independent friend."

Mr. Bardett who at first had begun to trj-
and make '• the litde girl," as he called her, feel
comfortable by saying pleasant, kind things to
her, soon gave up his endeavor, and as he did
so, he looked at her with one of his queer
satirical expressions. May caught the look and
grew hot, then cold. She knew perfectly what
it meant — that he was half-displeased, and half-
amused. What she did not know, was that he
was thinking just then, '■ What in the world led
Margaret to suggest that piece of trumisery, as
a visitor for May?" But as he ceased his en-
deavors to make "the litde giri comfortable,"
another idea flashed into his mind. It would be
a saving grace to let May see, as he could make
her see, what a second-rate simpleton — for so
he judged then — this friend was. The idea
was too tempting not to be acted upon, and
suddenly addressing her with a deference he
might have shown to an older person, he drew

the girl on to display — as she supposed — her
knowledge and brilliancy. Instead, however,
of these qualities, Cathy only displayed her
fooUshness and forwardness, behaving in fact in
a very second-rate manner indeed. " Oh,"
thought poor May, " I would n't have believed
that Cathy could go on like this. She can be
so sensible, .^nd Papa — Papa is too bad."

She looked appeahngly at him, but he did
not notice her. She then tried to stop Cathy
b)- asking her a question about school matters.
But Cathy would not be stopped. Still she
rattled on, perking up her little chin, and laugh-
ing, until May began to feel very much ashamed,
and to wish that something would happen, or

CATHY ADORNS HERSELF FOR THE PARTV. (SEE PAGE 204.)

somebody would come to the rescue. And some-
bod}- did come to the rescue ; and this somebody
was — the stepmother.

Mrs. Bardett had been observant of every-
thing— of her husband's "mischief," as she
termed it, of Cathy's silliness, and of May's
annoyance.

" What possesses Edward," she thought, " to
draw out that child's absurdities like this ? " And
then she echoed May's thought, '• It is too bad
of him." But, like May, she did n't understand
his motive. Yet if she had understood, I think
she would have done the same thing. And this

200

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

[Jan.

is what she did. An she saw her husband, with
that look of mischief on hi.s face, about to ad-
dress Miss Cathy again, she turned to him with a
sudden question relating to an important matter
in which he was interested. His attention once
caught, she held it, though there was an amused
sparkle in his eyes that showed he was perfectly
well aware of his wife's purpose. Hut the pur-
pose was served, and May drew a sigh of relief
But Cathy was not so well pleased to be thus
robbed of what she considered such flattering

interested in a book, from which he now and
then read passages to his wife. He took not
the slightest notice of " the children," as he
would have called them. Disaj)pointed by this
neglect, Cathy looked about her for some amu.se-
ment, and as she saw the open piano in the
further comer of the large room, she whispered
to May that they might try one of their duets.
" Oh, no, no, not now ; we '11 try to-morrow,"
poor May whispered back. But Cathy could
not or would not understand, and saying care-

^■'<'

.^' w.

^kj/£iM'''^:'\

-a^-'y

'/ii^

' &

"CATHS* RATTLED ON INTIL MAY BEGAN TO FEEL ASHAMED.'

attention, and responded rather absently to
May's low-voiced attempts to talk with her;
and, after they had left the table, when Ma\-
tried to draw her into her own special sanctum
— a charming room full of books and pictures
and games — Cathy said decidedly :

" Oh, let 's go into the parlor: I think it "s so
pleasant where there 's an open fire."

But if she fancied she was again to receive
the attention that had so flattered her, she was
mistaken. Mr. Bartlett became absorbingly

lessly, " Well, let me look at the music," led the
way to the instrument. Once there, she did not
content herself with looking; she must just try
whether she could remember this or that, she had
taken for a lesson. " This or that " turned out
to be a few bars of various compositions, not of
the highest order, and played without particular
skill. May stole a glance down the room at her
father. Mr. Bartlett was fond of music, and had
some knowledge of it, and a cultivated taste. May
saw him twist his mouth into a comical smile.

o.]

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

20 I

and shake his head ruefully as he looked at
Cathy.

" Come, let us play ' Halma ' ; I have a new
board," she whispered to Cathy.

But Cathy just then struck into a gay waltz,
and banged away with all her might. As she
played the last bars, Mrs. Bartlett approached.

" That was one of the Strauss waltzes, was n't
it ? " she asked Cathy politely ; and then she
began to speak of the great Peace Jubilee in
Boston, when Johann Strauss had come all the
way from Austria to play, and to lead the great
orchestra in the colosseum that was erected for
the jubilee.

" I was about your age then," she said, look-
ing at Cathy, " and I never had had such a
perfectly lovely time as I had then." As she
went on describing that fairy-like structure,
with its glass roof, covering so many acres,
and the bands from England and Germany and
France and Austria and Ireland, that came over
to America to play their own music in celebra-
tion of the peace of the world. May leaned for-
ward, spell-bound by the description and all
it brought before her, and even Cathy forgot
herself for the time. After this, Mr. Bartlett
called out :

" Margaret, play something for us ; " and
Margaret played some beautiful selections from
Schumann and Beethoven, and then, at the
last, she sang a good-night song by Robert
Franz ; and with the concluding words, " Good-
night, good-night," she rose, smiling, from her
seat, and as at that instant the little clock on
the mantel struck half-past nine. May knew
that it was time to go to bed, and rose also,
expecting Cathy to follow her example; but
Cathy hung back, and began to speak.

" Do you know any waltzes that you could
play for us to dance, Mrs. Bartlett ? " she
asked. Before Mrs. Bartlett could reply, Mr.
Bartlett had come forward, and was saying,
" Good-night, children," and in the next mo-
ment he was asking his wife to play a Hun-
garian march for him.

May was only too glad to get away. Once
upstairs by themselves, Cathy would be herself
again, she reasoned. But there were several
things rankling in Cathy's mind, not the least
of which was that " Good-night, children" and
Vol. XVII.— 23.

when May, with a little skip of relief, entered
the chamber, and said cheerfully :

" I don't feel a bit sleepy ; do you, Cathy ? "
Cathy answered sharply :

" I ? No ; I could have waltzed for half
an hour."

The color flew to May's face.

" But, Cathy, it is half-past nine, half an hour
later than I usually go to bed, and you told me
that nine was the seminary hour."

" Well, this is n't the seminary. I did n't
expect to visit a school," sarcastically.

May had to remember that Cathy was her
guest, and that she must be poHte to her, so
she said :

"I 'm so sorry, Cathy. But — she — will play
for us to dance to-morrow, I dare say."

" ' She ' — oh, that 's what you call her ? I ' ve
wondered what it was ! What do you call her
when you speak to her ? "

"I — I — don't say anything. I wait until
she is looking at me. I — "

Cathy went off into a giggle.

" Oh, it 's too funny. I must tell the girls
when I get back that you only speak of her as
' she,' and wait until she looks at you before — "

" Oh, don't, Cathy."

" Don't what ? "

" Don't make fun — like that — to the girls."

" Well, I should just like to know what has
come over you, May Bartlett; but I know well
enough. She has got the upper hand of you
in your own home, that 's clear."

The color in May's face deepened.

" How can you talk so foolishly, Cathy ? "

" I 'm not talking foolishly. I saw it at the
very first, when we were at the tea-table. \\'hat
did she do when your father was so nice and
pleasant to me but stop him and make him talk
to her ! And then she would n't let him come
near us in the parlor, but came herself after
a while, and told us stories about that old ju-
bilee. I 've heard my mother tell about it a
hundred times."

" Oh, Cathy ! you don't know — "

May stopped. She could n't tell Cathy that
she had been saved twice : once from making
herself ridiculous, and again from being an
annoyance, by — yes — by the stepmother. And
it was the stepmother who had encouraged her

202

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

LJAH.

visit, who had spoken of her as pretty and
bright-faced, when Cathy had been so bitter
against her, and, worst of all, at the very time
when she had been really doing her a kind-
ness;— but what was it Cathy was saying?

" I do know one thing. May, that you are
another girl here at home from what you are at
school. You don't seem to remember what
you 've told me about the garden-party, and
the wagon, and everything. You to tell me not
to talk to the girls ! "

May began to feel \exy angry, and luckily verj-
small too ; the latter feeling prevented the out-
burst of the former. How could she admonish
Cathy ? There was a silence for a few minutes,
while Cathy, with an injured look, made her
preparations for bed. By and by May said,
with an effort :

" She wanted you to come."

" She wanted me ; " a little rasping laugh,
and then, " what do you mean by that ? "

May explained by relating the conversation
where Mrs. Bartlett had spoken of her so
pleasantly. The angry lines relaxed a little
in Cathy's face, and presently she said, easily:

" Well, it was never my affair, you know. /
never knew anything about her, except what you
told me, and I 'm sure I hope she will turn out
nice, for your sake."

May struggled with her temper. She felt put
in the wrong on every side. But even if she
yielded to the wild impulse within her, what
could she say ? If Cathy had encouraged her
to talk against her stepmother, she had likewise
encouraged Cathy !

There was nothing to be said then; and
nothing to be done, except to listen to Cathy
with what patience she might ; but Cathy her-
self presently turned from the subject to some-
thing else, and a little later, all unkind thoughts
were lost, for the time, in slumber.

Ch.apter V.

" Play for you to dance ? Certainly I will.
But, May, how would you Uke to invite the
other girls who are spending their vacation at
the seminary to join a little partj' here on
Saturday evening ? "

" But there are not enough to make a party."

Mrs. Bartlett smiled.

"But I said 'join a party.' I thought I
would invite some of my friends in Boston with
their young people, if you would like it, and then
we might have enough for a dancing-party.
Would you like it ? "

May looked up. There was something in
the wistful tone of this " would you like it ? '
that made her ashamed of her ungracious hesi-
tation; yet Cathy's sneering accusation of the
night before, "you are another girl here at
home from what you are at school," had been
rankling in her mind. She must prove herself;
she must show Cathy that she was the same,
and so instead of responding at once as she felt,
with delight at the project, she said after that
hesitation, in a cold tone :

" Yes, I should like it verj' well." And then
Cathy, who was standing by, sprang forward
and exclaimed :

" Oh, Mrs. Bartlett, I think it would be just
lovely, and I 'm sure / shall like it above all
things ! "

Again May felt herself put in the wrong and
misunderstood, and again she had to struggle
with her temper. This conversation had taken
place on the .morning after Cathy's arrival,
which had been upon Friday, the beginning
of the vacation. The party proposed was for
the next Saturday.

"The only thing that troubles me is that I
have n't a Hght dress to wear — I 've only my
garnet cashmere here at Hillside," Cathy re-
marked, when she and May were alone to-
gether.

" Oh, but we are so near of a size you can
wear one of mine; I have two white wool
dresses," May answered readily.

When the dresses were produced and tried
on, Cathy found that the latest-made dress suited
her best.

" But, Cathy, don't you think it is too long ?
It comes almost to the floor upon you. I am
taller, you know."

" Oh, no, 't is n't a bit too long. I like it,"
Cathy replied hastily. And so the matter was
dismissed, Cathy after removing the dress
hanging it up in the closet with a pleased air.
The week sped by very quickly, and for the
most part smoothly. Cathy evidently enjoyed

iSgo.]

MAY BARTLETT S STEPMOTHER.

203

herself, though she found that Mr. Bartlett was
no longer disposed to treat her as a grown-up
young lady; indeed, that he took but scant
notice of her. The long drives, however, in
the httle village-wagon in the bright early days
of winter that were hke autumn, the trips to Bos-
ton, to a matinee performance of " Little Lord
Fauntleroy," and to visit one or two picture
galleries, filled the short days to overflowing.
On several occasions during this time, Cathy
had said things that had made May exceedingly
uncomfortable. Once, at the beginning of the
preparations for the little party, she suddenly
asked, " Don't you help, when anything of this
kind is going on ? "

"Help — how?" May inquired, in a be-
wildered tone.

" Why, with the notes of invitation for one
thing. I always do that part at home."

" No, I never thought of it. When Aunt
Mary lived with us I was too young, and she
left us only two years ago."

" Well, you do have an easy rime. May, I
must say," Cathy had responded to this. May
did not care to ask Cathy for any more of her
opinions on the subject ; a sense of hurt pride
was beginning to affect her — to make her draw
back within herself, and to feel that Cathy was
going too far. Once she would have told Cathy
this, would have told anybody who had spoken
to her in such a fashion ; but now, the con-
sciousness that she herself had opened the way
for Cathy to be so free with her silenced her.

Yet in spite of some annoyances like this, the
week ran rapidly toward its end, and Saturday
morning came. Just after luncheon, Mrs. Bart-
lett said to the girls :

" Had n't you two girls better try on your
dresses now, and see if everything is all right ?
They may need new ruching in the neck, or
some little changes. I always try on a dress
after it has n't been worn for a while, before the
last minute, as we used to say at home."

May started up readily; Cathy was not so
ready.

" But I 've tried the one I 'm to wear, Mrs.
Bartlett," she said.

" Yes, I know — all by yourselves; but don't
you want to let me see if everything is right ? If
it is n't, I can let Julie attend to it at once."

May was already upstairs, and Cathy slowly
followed her.

As Mrs. Bartlett entered the chamber, she
saw her stepdaughter standing arrayed in a very
pretty white gown, much too short in the skirt.

" There now, my dear, here is something to
be done. You have grown so tall, your skirt
must be lengthened." She busied herself for
several moments in taking measurements, and
then turned to Cathy.

" Why, my dear, you both have made a mis-
take. This is as much too long for you as the
one May has on is too short for her ; " and she
went forward, smilingly, ready to help remedy
this " mistake." But Cathy stepped back.

" No, there is no mistake, Mrs. Bartlett. I —
my party-dress at home is as long as this. I
hke it."

"But — with your hair down in a braid, it
hardly seems to suit you. The skirt is as long as
mine, I think," Mrs. Bartlett remarked quietly.

" Oh, well, I shall put my hair up to-night.
I often do at home," quickly responded Cathy.
" Besides, the other dress would be short for
me, too. I 'm nearly as tall as May."

As she spoke, Cathy walked across the room
to the mirror, and as she did so the difference
in height allowed May to look easily over her
head. Mrs. Bardett caught May's eye at that
moment, and laughed ! This was very undig-
nified, no doubt, but Mrs. Bartlett was only an
older girl herself, and the whole situation had
suddenly become irresistibly ludicrous to her.
May, too, in that moment, felt her indignation
at Cathy change to merriment, and, as Cathy
wheeled about with a look of questioning, she
surprised an exchange of glances that both
mortified and offended her.

But, with the easy readiness of her greater
experience, Mrs. Bartlett instantly said :

" It was so funny, my dear, to see May in
that ridiculously short skirt overtopping you
that I had to laugh ; " and then turning briskly
to May, she treated the matter as of no conse-
quence by saying :

" Now, May, if you will come with me to the
sewing-room, Julie will attend to your skirt."

The two girls saw little of each other after
this, until it was time to dress for the evening.
It was an early party, on account of the young

204

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

(Jan.

jjeople, and May had been occupied with Julie
most of the afternoon.

When, therefore, the two met later in the
day, something of Cathy's irritation had been
overlaid by other things ; but it had only been
overlaid, and May knew, by the rather artificial
manner in which Cathy tried to be cordial and
natural, that she had not forgotten. Specially
was this noticeable when May donned the gown
that Julie had altered.

" Oh, does n't it look nice, though ! " cried
Cathy, in a shghdy strained and nervous tone.

" It does very well," was all that May could
reply; for in fact the gown did not look par-
ticularly nice, spite of Julie's efforts. The
lengthening process showed in the white sur-
face, and even the broad sash did not conceal
that the waist also had been a little outgrown.
Julie, who had been sent in by Mrs. Bartlett
to assist the girls at their toilets, turned to
Cathy at last, saying, in her French-English :

" Now, if Mees Cathy 's ready for me, I
make her ready."

Cathy still waited. Then, as if struck by a
sudden thought, she cried:

" Oh, May, will you see if I can have some
of that red kalmia from the green-house instead
of the daisies? "

May took the hint — Cathy wanted to get
rid of her. It was on the stroke of the hour
for which the guests had been bidden when they
next met.

" What can your friend be about ? " Mrs.
Bartlett asked with some concern as the min-
utes sped by. May knew no more than her
stepmother. She only knew that the bunch
of kalmia had been sent up to Cathy half an
hour ago.

" Perhaps you had better run up and see if
she is waiting for )0U to come for her," Mrs.
Bartlett then suggested. But just as May
started, the clock struck eight, and at the same
time the door-bell rang. At that very moment
a white vision appeared on the parlor threshold.
It was a slender young lady in a white dress,
■with her dark hair piled in a crown-like coil
upon the top of her head. At the neck, a
cluster of scarlet flowers began, and, widening
out in a bright mass of color, drooped in long
sprays to the waist-line. Both May and her

stepmother looked at this vision at first with
surprise. Was it a guest whose arrival they
had not heard? The white vision stepped
forward; the red mouth above the red flowers
smiled.

" Why, Cathy I " cried May. Yes, it was
Cathy. In her long, white dress, with her
dusky hair gathered up, and all those scarlet
kalmias, she looked like a young lady, and a
very pretty one, it must be confessed. Cathy
was (juite aware of the effect that she produced.
She saw surprised admiration in May's glance.
It was not so easy to read Mrs. Bartlett's face,
but in the smile of recognition Miss Cathy saw
no sign of disapproval.

The ring at the door-bell was that of the little
party from the seminary. When they came
into the parlor, Joanna, as the eldest of the
three, advanced first, Elsie and Susy shyly fol-
lowing. .'Ml three were dressed somewhat alike,
in different shades of dark-blue cashmere. If,
as they observed the white-robed figures before
them, they might have felt a little shade of
girlish regret and mortification that they too
were not so whitely clothed, the warm recep-
tion that they received from Mrs. Bartlett and
May went far to reassure them. None of the
party at first recognized Cathy. When they
did, Susy forgot her shyness for the moment in
her astonishment, and cried out in that little soft
odd voice of hers :

" Oh, it 's Cathy in a fancy costume — how
funny ! "

The rest of the girls laughed — that is, all
but Cathy; and Susy, noting the vexed expres-
sion of her face, added :

" I did n't mean by 'funny' that it was n't
nice, too."

The girls laughed again, Cathy joining this
time. As for Mrs. Bartlett, she thought :

" What a dear, quaint littie darling it is. If
only she had been May's visitor! "

But as the other guests began to arrive, there
was little opportunit)' to indulge in regrets of
any kind. The guests were some of them
strangers to May even: they were old friends
and acquaintances of Mrs. Bartlett's, with their
young sisters, or daughters, and their brothers.

" Oh, is n't it nice to have real partners ! "
exclaimed Cathy, as she saw the latter enter.

■890.]

MAY BARTLETTS STEPMOTHER.

Joanna, to whom she spoke, laughed, and
said she thought s/if was real enough whenever
she had been Cathy's partner.

"Oh, but you know what I mean — gentle-
men partners," pettishly responded Cathy; and
Joanna had responded to this :

"/call them boys."

Two violins, a harp, and a comet, in a small
room leading out of the parlors, made music for
the dancers. All the girls entered into the
dancing with great zest, Cathy more than the
rest, ^\^len May had first recognized her, in
the long dress and piled-up hair, she had felt
such a thrill of admiration that all her old be-
lief and regard, which had been sorely shaken
within the last few days, revived. In fact,
Cathy looked so much like a splendid grown-
up young lady then, that to criticise her seemed
an impertinence ; and introducing this splendid
young lady to one and another, May had a feel-
ing of pride in her, and when she saw with what
a self-possessed air these introductions were re-
ceived, she was sure that there was not one of
those Boston girls who had nicer manners.

The dancing was in the long wide hall, as
well as in the parlors. Cathy seemed to prefer
the hall, and May found herself in the parlor,
separated from her as the evening went on;
and now and then she would wonder whether
Cathy was having a good time. May herself was
having a delightful rime. She had forgotten all
about her dress being short in the waist, and
showing where it had been let down ; she had
forgotten everything that was disagreeable, in-
deed, when she suddenly became conscious that
the music was greatly accelerated in speed, and
that over and above the music there seemed
to be a good deal of noise — the sound of
voices and laughter.

She was vaguely wondering what it meant,
when she heard one of the boy strangers from
town say to another, with a laugh :

" They 're rushing things out there in the
hall, are n't they ? " And the other answered :

" It 's that seminary girl. She 's set them all
a-going. I saw her speak to the musicians
just now."

That seminary girl ! AVho, luho could they
mean ? Just then the final quadrille change
was called, and the moment slie was free May

205

dashed out into the hall. But the music, which
had ceased for a second, had struck up again
into a wild jig tune, and there was Cathy, her
hair flying, her laugh sounding, leading off down
the polished floor, almost on a run, to the jig
tune, with one of the older boys for her partner.

" Margaret, if you don't stop that little hoy-
den, I will ! " May here overheard her father
say. The next instant she saw her stepmother
walk rapidly past, and in another instant the
music came to an abrupt close.

Cathy, in her mad speed, at that instant met
Mrs. Bartlett face to face as she was leaving
the music-room.

" Oh, Mrs. Bartlett," she broke forth, " how
could you stop our fun ? "

"Hush, my dear," began Mrs. Bartlett; but
Cathy, wild mth her fun, as she called it, inter-
rupted with a pleading and protesting — plead-
ing for "just one more swing," and protesting
generally in a foolish, flippant litde manner, full
of vanity and silliness, wth a notion that she
was behaving in a very young ladyish style, and
attracting the admiration of everybody about
her ; when she was attracting, instead, that very
unenviable attention which expresses itself in
astonished stares and questions of: " Who is that
little hoyden ? " If she had turned, as she stood
there protesting, she would have seen the mas-
ter of the house approaching with an ominous
frown upon his face ; but she did not turn, and
she only saw the mistress of the house shake her
head at some one, and then heard her say :

" Come, Cathy, it is nearly supper time, and
I want you to go upstairs and let Julie put
your hair and dress in order." As Mrs. Bart-
lett said this, she fixed her eyes upon Cathy
with a perfectly kind, but a compelling gaze, and
the girl knew that she must obey ; but there
was in her heart a blind, unreasoning fury as
she did so.

May, full of shame and disappointment,
shrank back into the shadow of the portiere
near her father, but unseen by him. It was
then she heard her stepmother say:

" No, Edward, I could n't let you speak to
her. You must remember she is only a child
— a willful, spoiled child, and her head is a
little turned by her high spirits, and her pret-
tiness, and the effect she seemed to produce."

2o6

MAY BAKTLETTS STEPMOTHER

" Margaret, you would find excuses for any-
body."

" I would certainly find excuses for such a
mere child as this."

They moved away together, but May still re-
mained behind the portiere, thinking, thinking,
thinking. This was the third time her step-
mother had shielded Cathy — Cathy, who from
the start had been against her, had said hard
things, had had hard thoughts of her, had done
her best to injure her. But who had encouraged
Cathy ? Again this question confronted May.

" May, is it you, my dear ? "

Somebody was pushing the portiere aside.
It was her stepmother.

" Oh, it is you. Will you run up, my dear,
and see if Cathy is ready to come down. I
can't think what keeps her so long. It could n't
have taken Julie more than five minutes to put
her dress in order."

As May sped on her errand her thoughts sped
with her, tormenting her with fears and regrets.
At the door of her room she paused a moment,
with tiie fears increasing, for there was a confu-
sion of voices, Cathy's rising above the others.

"No; I shall /loi go down again! — to be
sent away like a baby ! — do you think — ! "

" Oh, Cathy ! Cathy ! you mi/sf come down ;
I 've been sent for you," cried May, as she
entered the room.

" I shall rw//"

" How silly you are, Cathy. Of course you '11
go down."

It was Joanna who spoke. As May crossed
the threshold she saw that Joanna and Susy
were both standing by the dressing-table.

" There 's no ' of course ' about it," Cathy re-
torted sharply, " and you may call me silly if
you like, Joanna Macy, but I should just like
to ask you how you would feel to be treated
like a baby — sent off to have your hair brushed
and your face washed, right in the middle of a
dance ? "

" Hair brushed and face washed ! How you
do go on, Cathy ! But it was n't in the middle
of a dance. The cotillon had ended, and it
was you who started that other thing — I saw
you, and I should have thought Mrs. Bartlett

would have been disgusted. It was horrid of
you — a school-girl like you, to be so forward.
I was so ashamed I did n't know what to do."

"A school-girl like me ! I 'm fifteen, Joanna
Macy."

" What 's fifteen ? We are all nothing but a
pack of school-girls, any way."

" And to be stopjjed like that, and sent off,
and your partner — a young gentleman, stand-
ing with you ! "

" Oh, that 'sit! A young gentleman ! That
Everett boy!" and Joanna laughed scornfully.

Cathy's rage did n't cool at Joanna's speech,
and she was about to retort again, when May
broke in with, her entreaty :

" Oh, t/a come, Catliy ! I have been sent
for you."

" Yes, s/ie^ sent you, I suppose," with a sneer-
ing emphasis upon the pronoun.

" Cathy, you are very — very unjust. If you
did but know it, she has been very kind to you,"
cried May.

" She ! She ! She ! " Cathy mockingly re-
peated. " That is what May calls this step-
mother of whom all at once she is so fond ! " and
then, in a few sharp, stinging words, Cathy let
loose the irritation that had been accumulating
from her hurt vanity for the last few days. In
these words were reproach and accusation, which
had enough truth in them to make it very diffi-
cult for May to control herself; but with the
reproach and accusation against herself were
mixed at last such comment and criticism of
her stepmother as not only May, but the two
other girls, felt to be both unfair and imper-
tinent.

" How can you, Cathy ? " burst out Joanna
indignantly. " Mrs. Bartlett has been lovely
to you — to us all, I 'm sure. If you had to
sputter out that silly prejudice against step-
mothers at first, you might stop now. I should
think you 'd harmed May about enough."

"/harmed May ! May hated her stepmother
from the first. It was May who told me — "
Her voice suddenly ceased as she caught the
expression of horror in May's eyes, — May, who
was looking beyond her at somebody, or some-
thing,— who — what could it be ?

To be contintied.)

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

(A Legend of Ns'lO Mexico in the Fifteenth Century.)

By Charles F. Lummis.

\,>,>A)J^\

\ N '%

EAR ye, people of Acoma,
for I, the Governor, speak.
To-morrow, go ye down to
the fields to plow; already
it is the month of rain, and
there is Httle in the store-
rooms. Let all go forth,
that we build shelters of cedar and stay in the
fields. The women, also, to cook for us. Take
ye each one his burros, and food for a month.
And pray that the Sun-Father, Pa-yat-yama, give
us much com this year."

As white-headed Kai-a-tan-ish passed delib-
erately down the front of the houses, the soft
Queres words rolling sonorously from his deep
throat, the people stopped their work to listen
to him. The ruddy sun was just resting over
the cliffs of the Black Mesa, which walled the
pretty valley on the west, and the shadows of
the houses were creeping far out along the
rocky floor of the town.

Such quaint houses as they were ! BuUt of
gray adobe, terraced so that the three successive
stories receded like a giganric flight of steps,
they stood in three parallel rows, each a con-
tinuous block a thousand feet long, divided by
interior walls into wee but comfortable tene-
ments. There were no doors nor windows in
the lower story, but tall ladders reached to its
roof, which formed a sort of broad piazza before
the second-story door. Women were washing
their hair with the soapy root of the palmilla on
the yard-like roofs, or coming home from the
great stone reservoir with gaily decorated iina-
jas* of rain-water perched confidently upon their
heads. Children ran races along the smooth
rock which served for a street, or cared for their
mothers' babies, slung upon their patient young
backs. The men were very busy, tying up
bundles in buckskin, putting new handles on
their stone axes and hoes, or fitting to damaged

arrows new heads shaped from pieces of quartz
or volcanic glass.

As the governor kept his measured way down
the street, repeating his proclamation at inter-
vals, a tall, powerfully-made Indian stepped from
one of the houses, descended the ladder to the
ground, and walked out toward the sunset until
he could go no farther. He stood on the edge
of a dizzy cliff". From its beetling top the old
cedars in the plain below looked like dark-green
moss. For in those days the Queres city of
Acoma stood on the Rock of Katzimo — a great
round, stone table two miles in circumference,
and with perpendicular walls a thousand feet
high. The level valley, five miles wide, was
hemmed in by cliffs, forming a gigantic box;
and in its very center rose the red Rock of
Katzimo.

Sho-ka-ka stood looking out at the fiery sun-
set with a sad and absorbed expression. He
did not hear the patter of bare feet on the rock
behind him, nor did he turn till a small hand
nestled in his own and a boy's clear voice said :

" Ah, Tata ! To-morrow we go to the plant-
ing ! The governor has said it. And perhaps
I may kill rabbits with the new bow thou didst
make me. When I am bigger, I will use it to
kill the wicked Apaches."

The man laid his muscular hand upon the
boy's head and drew it to his side. " Still for
war and the chase ! " he said, fondly. " But it
is better to kill rabbits and deer than men.
Think thou of that, A-chi-te. Wt Queres fight
only to save our homes, not for the sake of
fighting and plunder, as do the Apaches. But
thy mother is very sick and can not go to the
fields, and it is not kind to leave her alone.
Only that I am a councilor of the city and must
give a good example in working, I would stay
with her. A hundred children will go to the
fields, but thou shalt be a man to keep the town.

' Large earthen jars.
207

208

THE ENXHANTED MESA.

IJAN.

Two other women lie sick near the estii/a, and
thou shall care for thy mother and for them."

The boy's lip quivered an instant with dis-
appointment; but Pueblo children never even
think disobedience, and he shut his teeth firmly.

" Poor Nana ! " (little mother) he said, " poor
little Mamma ! Truly she can not be left alone.
And, if the .\pachcs come, I will roll down
such stones on them that they shall think the
Hero Brothers have come down from the Sun-
Father's house to fight for Acoma ! "

"That is my brav-e. Now run thou home
and grind the dried meat and put it in my
pouch, that I may be ready to start early. All
else is done. If thou dost well while I am
gone, I will make tliee the best bow and quiver
of arrows in all Acoma."

A-chi-te started homeward, running like a
deer. He was fifteen years old, tall for his age,
clean-limbed and deep-chested. His heavy
black hair was cut straight above his big, black
eyes, and behind fell below his shoulders. He
had the massive but clear-cut features of his
father — a face of remarkable strength and
beauty, despite the swarthy skin.

Sho-ka-ka sighed as the boy ran off. " It is
in an ill time that we start for the planting. I
saw an owl in the cedars to-day, and it would
not fly when I shouted. And when I smoked
the holy smoke, I could not blow it upward at
all. Perhaps the spirits are angry with us. It
is good that we make a sacrifice to-night, to put
their anger to sleep." And he strode thought-
fully away to the great, round cstufa, where the
councilors were to smoke and deliberate upon
the morrow's work.

When the Sun-Father peeped over the eastern
mesas in the morning, he looked in the eyes of
his expectant children. Motionless and statu-
esque they stood upon the house-tops, awaiting
his coming ; and now they bowed reverently as
his round, red house rose above the horizon. A
solemn sacrifice had been offered the night before,
and all the medicine-men deemed the omens
favorable, save old Poo-ya-tye, who shook
his head but could not tell what he feared.

Already an active young brave had rounded-
up the hundreds of burros at the foot of the
rock; and now a long procession of men,
women, and children, bearing heavy burdens

for the packs, was starting toward the southern
brink of the cliff. A deep, savage cleft, gnawed
out by the rains of centuries, afibrded a dan-
gerous path for five hundred feet downward ;
and then began the great Ladder Rock. A
vast stone column, once part of the mesa, but
cut off by the erosion of unnumbered ages, had
toppled over so that its top leaned against the
cliff, its base being two hundred feet out in a
young mountain of soft, white sand. Up this
almost precipitous rock a series of shallow steps
had been cut. To others, this dizzy ladder
would have seemed insurmountable ; but these
sure-footed Children of the Sun thought nothing
of it. It gave the only possible access to the
mesa's top, and a well-aimed stone would roll
a climbing enemy in gory fragments to the bot-
tom. They could afford a little trouble, for the
sake of having the most impregnable city in the
world — these quiet folk who hated war, but
lived among the most desperate savage war-
riors the world has ever known — Apaches,
Comanches, Navajos, and Utes.

The seeds, the provisions, the stone hand-
mills, the stone a.xes and hoes, the rude plows
— each made of a young pine, with one short,
strong branch left near the butt for a share —
were packed upon the patient burros. Upon
other burros mounted the men, riding double,
and the women, each with children clinging
before and behind her. As Sho-ka-ka rode
away, he turned to look up once more at the
Rock, and at the tiny figure outlined against the
sky. It seemed no more than a wee black ant,
but he knew it was his son, A-chi-te, and waved
his hand as he yelled back, "Sha-wa-tsos/i/"
from lungs as mighty as those of Montezuma.

In half an hour the long procession had
melted into the brown bosom of the valley;
and even A-chi-te's keen eyes could distinguish
it no longer. He drew a deep breath, threw
back his square young shoulders, and walked
away to his mother's house. Alone \nth three
sick women, the only man in Acoma — no won-
der the boy's head was carried even straighter
than usual. Truly, this was better than going
to the planting. All the boys had gone there,
but he was trusted to guard alone the proudest
city of the Queres !

He ran up the tall ladder and entered the

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

209

house. At one side of the dark Kttle room la\-
his mother on a low bed of skins. The boy
put his warm cheek against the wasted face,
and a thin hand crept up and stroked his heavy
hair. " Little one of my heart," she whispered,
" are they all gone ? "

" All gone, Nana, and I am left to guard thee
and the town. Now, await me while I make
thee a drink oi atole."*

A-chi-te went over to the big lava metale,\ at
the other side of the room, drew from a buck-
skin bag a handful of blue corn that had been
parched in the big beehive of an oven, and, lay-

ried a supply of gnarled cedar sticks into each
house to feed the queer little mud fire-places, —
for, at that altitude of over seven thousand feet,
it was cold even in summer, — A-chi-te turned
his attention to the duty which naturally seemed
to his boyish ambition the most important — to
guard the town. He slung over his shoulder
his bow and arrows, in a case made from the
skin of mo-keit-c/hi, the mountain-hon. Then
he went scouring over the pueblo, gathering up
all the stones he could find, from the size of his
fist to that of his head, and carried them down
to the foot of the great cleft where the Ladder

THE ROCK OF KATZIMO — THE EN'CHANTED MESA.

ing the hard kernels on the sloping block, began
to scrub them to powder with a small slab of
lava, flat on one side and rounded on the other
to fit the hand. When the com was reduced to a
fine, bluish meal, he brushed it carefully into a
litrie earthen bowl, and with a gourd-cup dipped
some burro's milk from a caJeU-.\ This he poured
slowly upon the meal, stirring with a stick, till
the bowl was full of a thin, sweet porridge.

" Drink, Nana," he said, holding the bowl to
her lips, and supporting her head on his left
arm. " Then I will carry ato/c to Stchu-muts
and Kush-eit-ye."

When he had fed his three charges and car-

* .\ gruel made by boiling Indian corn in water or milk
inclined plane, used for grinding corn.

Vol.. XVII.— 24.

Rock began. Here he stowed them in a little
recess in the rock ; and as they were not so
many as he thought desirable, he added to
them several score adobe bricks from ruined
houses. When this was done, he viewed his
battery with great satisfaction. " Now let the
Apaches come! Truly, they will find it bitter
climbing ! " And, indeed, it was so. So long
as his rude ammunition .should hold out, the
boy alone coidd hold at bay a thousand foes.
No arrow could reach to his lofty perch, nor
could the strongest climber withstand even his
lightest missile on that dizzy " ladder."

A-chi-te now brought down some skins, and

t .\ curved stone in the shape of an
} X flat bowl of clay.

2IO

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

[Jan.

made a little bed beside his pile of stones.
There was no danger that the Apaches would
come in the daytime, and he would sleep with
his weapons by his side, so that they should not
surprise him by night. During the day he could
devote himself to the sick.

Two days went by uneventfully, and A-chi-te
was disappointed. Why did not the .Vpaches
come, that he might show his father how well
he could guard Acoma ? The third day dawned
cloudy, and a ragged, sullen drift hid the Peak
of Snow, away to the north. In the afternoon
the rain began to sweep down violently, a sav-
age wind dashing it against the adobes as
if to hurl them from their solid foundations.
Little rivers ran down the streets and poured
from tiie edges of the clitT in hissing cataracts.
A perfect torrent was running down the cleft,
and spreading out over the great Ladder Rock
in a film of foam. Luckily, .V-chi-te's missiles
and bed were out of its reach.

" Surely thou wilt not sleep in the Ladder
to-night," said his mother, as she listened to
the roar of the storm.

" Yes, Nana, it must be. On such a night
the .\paches are likeliest to come. I am not
salt, that the rain should melt me ; and my bed
is above the running water. What would Tata
say, if he came home and found 1 had let the
Apaches in, for fear of getting myself wet ? "

When he had fed the sick, .\-chi-te took his
bow and (]ui\cr and started for his post. It was
already growing dark, and the storm showed no
sign of abatement. It was a fearful climb down
to his little crow's-nest of a fort. The narrow
slipper}- path was at an average angle of over fifty
degrees, and was now choked with a seething
torrent. He had at one time to climb along
precarious ledges above the water, and at an-
other to trust himself waist-deep in that ava-
lanche of foam — keeping from being swejjt
down to instant death only by pressing des-
perately against the rocky walls of the gorge,
here not more than three feet apart. But at
last, trembling with exhaustion, he drew himself
up to his little niche and sank upon his drenched
bed, while the white torrent bellowed and raxed
under his feet, as if maddened at the loss of its
expected prey.

Deeper and deeper grew the darkness, fiercer

and fiercer the storm. Such a rain had never
been seen before in all the country of the Hano
Oshatch. It came down in great sheets that
veered and slanted with the desperate wind,
dug up stout cedars by the roots, and pried
great rocks from their lofty perches to send
them thundering down the valley. To the
shivering boy, drenched and alone in his angle
of the giant chff, it was a fearful night ; and
older heroes than he might have been pardoned
for uneasiness. But he never thought of leav-
ing his post; and, hugging the rocky wall to
escape as far as he couKl the pitiless pelting
of the cold rain, he watched the long hours
through.

" .\-chi-te : .\-chi-te ! "

Surely that could not be his mother's voice !
The gray of dawn was beginning to assert itself
on the dense blackness of the sky. The rain
and the wind were more savage than ever. She
could not be heard from the house he thought
— and yet

".\-chi-te! A-chi-te! "

It 7i.'iis her voice; and in suq^rise and con-
sternation .\-chi-te started up the cleft. It was
still dark in that narrow, lofty-walled chasm ; the
torrent was deeper and wilder than before. It
was easier to go up than down in such a place ;
but it was all his lithe young limbs and strong
muscles could do to bring him to the top.
There stood his mother, her soft, black hair
blown far out on the fierce wind, her great eyes
shining unnaturally in their shrunken settings.

" SasJie Diiil-yei-sa.' The house is fallen ! It
has broken my arm, and Kush-eit-ye is buried
to her head under a wall, 'i'he white shadows
have come for us 1 Thou must run to thy
father, and Itring him home before we die !
Run, my brave, soul of my heart ! "

The boy looked at her, and then down the
roaring chasm. It was far worse than when
he had descended before. .\nd the Ladder
Rock — could he do it? He put his arm
across his mother's shoulder and drew her head
against his cheek, patting her back gently, — the
quaint embrace of his people.

" Get thee into a house, Nana. I go for Tata.
S/ia-iua-tsos/i.'" And in another moment he
had disappeared between the black jaws of the
abyss.

iSgo.]

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

21 I

The horror of a hfe-
time was in that few
hundred feet. Blinded
by the rain, deafened by
the hoarse thunder of
the stream, he let him-
self down foot by foot
with desperate strength.
Once the flood swept
his feet from under him
and left him hanging
by the clutch of his
hands upon the walls.
It took two full min-
utes to bring his feet
back to the rock be-
neath. But at last he
came to where the cleft
widened and the frantic
stream spouted out and
went rolling down the
precipitous slope of the
Ladder Rock. Here
he stood a moment to
catch his breath, and
then turning, began to
back do^Ti the slippery
rock, his hands dug
fiercely into one foot-
notch, whOe his toes
groped in the hissing
water for the notch be-
low. His teeth were
set, his bronze face was
a ghastly gray, his eyes
were like coals. The
wet strands of his hair
whipped his face like
scourges, his finger-ends
were bleeding as he
pressed them against the

sandstone. But slowly, automatically as a ma-
chine, he crept down, down, fighting the fierce
water, clinging to the tiny toe-holes. Once he
stopped. He was sure that he felt the rock
tremble, and then despised himself for the
thought. The great Ladder Rock tremble ?
Why, it was as solid as the mighty mesa I

It was half an hour before he reached the
bottom of the rock ; and when he looked down-

is THE STONE CLEFT.

ward, over his shoulder, he cried out aghast.
The cataract had had its way with the great
hill of fine sand on which the base of the rock
rested; and where the path had been was
now a great gully fifty feet deep. To drop
was certain death. He thought for a moment.
Ah ! the />i/io/i .'* And he crawled to the side of
the rock, which was here only a gentle slope.
Sure enough there was the pii'wyi tree still stand-

* Pine-tree (literally, the pine-nut seed or kernel).

21 2

THE ENCHANTED MESA.

ing, but on the very edge of the chasm. It was
fifteen feet out and ten feet below him — an
ugly jump. But he drew a long breath and
leaped out. Crashing down through the brittle
branches, bruised and torn and bleeding, he
righted himself at last and drop])ed to the
ground. A moment's breathing spell and he
was dashing down the long sand-hill, and then
away up the valley. The fields were eight miles
away. Would his strength last, sorely tried as
it had been ? He did not know ; but he pressed
his hand against his bleeding side and ran on.

Suddenly he felt the ground quiver beneath
his feet. A strange, rushing sound filled his ears ;
and, whirling about, he saw the great Ladder
Rock rear, throw its head out from the cliff,
reel there an instant in mid-air, and then go
toppling out into the plain like some wounded
Titan. .•\s those thousands of tons of rock smote
upon the solid earth with a hideous roar, a great
cloud went up, and the valley seemed to rock to
and fro. From the face of the cliffs three miles
away, great rocks came leaping and thundering
down ; and the tall pifions swayed and bowcfl
as before a hurricane. .\-chi-le was thrown
headlong by the shock, and lay stunned. The
Ladder Rock had fallen — the unprecedented
flood had undermined its sandy bed !

.•\nd the town, — his mother — ! The boy
sprang to his feet and began running again,
stiffly, and with an awful pallor on his set face.

When the men of .\coma came gallop-
ing home on foaming burros, it was in deathly
silence. And even when they stood beside
that vast fallen pillar of stone, looking up at
the accursed cliff, not one could speak a word.
There was Acoma, the city in the sky. the home
of their forefathers ;
but their feet would
never press its rock\
streets again. Fi\c
hundred feet abo\ l
their heads opened
the narrow cleft :
and five hundred
feet higher, against
the sullen grav skv.

flitted two wan figures whose frantic shrieks
scarce reached the awe-struck crowd below.
No ladder could ever be built to scale that
dizzy height. The clift" everywhere was peri)en-
dicular. And so, forever exiled from the homes
that were before their eyes, robbed of their all,
heart-wrung by the sight of the doomed women
on the cliff, the simple-liearled Children of the
Sun circled long about the fatal Rock of Kat-
zimo. Council after council was held, sacrifice
after sacrifice was offered ; but the merciless
clift" .still frowned unpitying. It became plain
that they must build a new town to be safe from
the savage tribes which surrounded them on
every side ; and on a noble mesa, three miles
to the south, they founded a new .\coma, where
it stands to-day, five hundred feet above the
plain, and safe from a similar catastro])he.

For weeks the two women haunted the brink
of their aerial prison, and daily Sho-ka-ka and
A-chi-te went to its foot with sympathizing
neighbors to weep, and to scream out words
of hopeless encouragement. Then Stchu-muts
came no more, and Nai-chat-tye was alone.
Back and forth .she paced, like some caged
beast chafing at the bars ; and then, throwing
up her wasted arms, sprang out to her death.

Full four hundred years have passed .since
then, and the land of the Pueblos is filling with
a race of white-skinned strangers. Scientific
expeditions have exhausted the ingenuity of
civilization to scale the Rock of Katzimo and
recover its archaeological treasures, but all in
vain. The natives shun it, believing it accursed.
And to-day, as I sit on the rocky battlements of
the Acoma that now is, watching the sunset glory

creeping higher up
that wondrous island
of ruddy rock to the
north, an old Indian
at my side tells the
oft-repeated stor)^ of
the Enchanted Mesa.
He is the many-
times - great-grand-
son of A-chi-te.

TRACKED BY A PANTHER.

By Charles G. D. Roberts.

The story which I am about to relate was
told me beside the camp-fire, on the banks of
the Big Squatook, in south-eastern Quebec.

The wild regions about the Squatook lakes
are rich in fish and game. With their virgin
forests, wild streams, exquisite and varied land-
scapes, this country is a Paradise for sportsmen
and canoemen. A party of four, devotees
of gun and rod and paddle, we went one Jul}-
to this land of the Big Squatook ; and round
the camp-fire one chilly evening, when a sudden
north wind had put an abrupt end to our fish-
ing, Stranion, being in a certain sense the leader
of our party, was called upon for a story of
adventure. We all were experienced woods-
men, with a large stock of stories at our com-
mand ; but Stranion's experience was the widest,
and to him had fallen the strangest and most
thrilling adventures. 'When Stranion was not
w-ith us, a good yam might be elicited from
the lips of W. B., or Sam, or even my.self ; but
in Stranion's presence we paled our " uneftectual
fires." It was on this account, perhaps, that we
were given to interrupting Stranion with occa-
sional gibes and questionings, lest he should grow
too overwhelmingly conscious of the superiorit}-
of his gift.

When we had heaped our camp-fire to thrice
its accustomed height, and had huddled our-
selves comfortably in our blankets under the lee
of the tent, we turned our attention to Stranion,
and Stranion began :

" Boys, the air bites shrewdly. It is a nipping
and an eager air. In fact, it puts me forcibly in
mind of one of mv best adventures, which befell

me that winter when I was trapping on the Little
Sou'vvest Miramichi."

" Oh, come ! Tell us a good summer story,
old man," interrupted W. B. " I 'm half frozen
as it is, to-night. Tell us about some place
down in the tropics where they have to cool
their porridge with boiling water."

" Nay," replied Stranion, " my thoughts are
\\intry, and even so must my story be."

He traced in the air a few meditative circles
with his pipe (which he rarely smoked, using it
rather for oratorical effect), and then resumed :

" That was a hard winter of mine on the Little
Sou'west. I enjoyed it at the time, and it did
me good ; but, looking back upon it now, I
wonder what induced me to undertake it. I
got the experience, and I indulged my hobby
to the full ; but by spring I felt like a barbarian.
It is a fine thing, boys, as we all agree, to be an
amateur woodsman, and it brings a fellow very
close to nature ; but it is much more sport in
summer than in winter, and it 's better when one
has good company than when he 's no one to
talk to but a pretematurally gloomy Melicite.

'■I had Noel with me that winter — a good
hunter and true, but about as companionable as
a mud-turtle. Our traps were set in two great
circuits, one on the south side of the stream, the
other on the north. The range to the north was
in my own charge, and a ^-ery big charge it
was. When I had any sort of luck, it used
to take me a day and a half to make the round,
for I had seventeen traps to tend, spread out
o\-er a range of about twenty miles. But when
the traps were not well filled, I used to do it

214

TRACKED BV A PANTHER.

[Jan.

without sleeping awaj' from cam]). It 's not
much like play, I can tell you, tramping all day
on snow-shoes through those woods, carrying an
axe, a fowling-piece, food, ammunition, and
sometimes a pack of furs. Whenever I had to
sleep out, I would dig a big oblong hole in the
snow, build a roaring fire at one end of the hole,
bury myself in hemlock boughs at the other end,
and snooze like a dormouse till morning. I
relied implicitly on the fire to keep off any bears
or Indian Devils* that might be feeling inquisi-
tive as to whether I would be good eating.

" The snow must have been fully six feet dee])
that year. One morning, near the last of
February, I had set out on my round, and had
made some three miles from our shanty, when
I caught sight of a covey of j)artri(lges in the
distance, and turned out of my way to get a
shot at them. It had occurred to me that per-
chance a brace of tiiem might make savory
morsels for my sujiper. .\fter a considerable
deioiir, I bagged my birds and recovered my trail
near the last trap I had visited. My tracks, as
I had left them, had been solitary enough ; but
now I found the\' were accompanied by the
foot-prints of a large Indian Devil.

" I did n't really expect to get a shot at the
beast, but I loaded both barrels with ball-car-
tridges. As I went on, however, it began to strike
me as strange that the brute should ha])pen to
be going so far in my direction. Step for step his
foot-prints clung to mine. When I reached the
place where I had branched oft" in search of the
partridges, I found that the panther had branched
off with me. So polite a conformity of his ways
to mine could have but one significance. I was
being tracked !

" The idea, when it first struck me, struck me
with too much force to be agreeable. It was a
very unusual proceeding on the part of an In-
dian Devil, displaying a most imperfect concep-
tion of the fitness of things. That I should hunt
him was proper and customary; but that he
should think of hunting me was presumptuous
and most unpleasant. I resolved that he should
be made to repent it before night.

"The traps were unusually successful that
trip, and at last I had to stop and make a cache
of my spoils. This unusual delay seemed to mis-

* A name sometimes

lead my wily jnirsuer, who suddenly came out
of a thicket while I was hidden behind a tree
trunk. As he crept stealthily along on my tracks,
not fifty yards away, I was disgusted at his sleuth-
hound persistence and crafty malignity. I raised
my gun to my .shoulder, and in another moment
would have rid myself of his undesired attentions,
but the animal must have caught a gleam from
the shining barrels, for lie turned like a tlash and
buried himself in the neare.st thicket.

" It was evident that he did not wish the mat-
ter forced to an immediate issue, .^s a conse-
quence, I decided tliat it ought to be settled at
once. I ran toward the thicket, but at the same
time the panther stole out on the other side and
disa])peared in the woods.

" Upon this I concluded that he had become
scared and given uj) his unhallowed purpose.
For some hours I dismissed him from my mind
and tended my traps witliout further a])])rehen-
sion. But about the middle of the afternoon, or
a little later, when I had reached the furthest
point on my circuit, I once more became im-
pressed with a sense that I was being followed.
The impression grew so strong that it weighed
upon me, and I determined to bring it to a test.
Taking some luncheon from my pocket, I .sat
down behind a tree to nibble and wait. I su])-
pose I must have sat there ten minutes, hearing
nothing, seeing nothing, .so that I was about to
give it up and continue my tramj), when — along
came the panther ! My gun was leveled in.stantly,
but at that same instant the brute had disap-
peared. His eyes were sharper than mine. ' Ah ! '
said I to myself, ' I shall have to keep a big fire
going to-night, or this fellow will pay me a call
when I am snoring ! ' "

" Oh ! surely not ! " murmured W. B., pen-
sively. The rest of us laughed, but Stranion only
waved his pipe with a gesture that commanded
silence, and went on :

" About sundown I met with an unlucky acci-
dent, which dampened both my spirits and my
powder. In crossing a swift brook, at a place
where the ice was hardly thick enough to hold up
its covering of snow, I broke through and was
soaked. After fishing myself out with some dif-
ficulty, I found my gun was full of water which
had frozen as it entered. Here was a pretty
given to panthers.

TRACKED BY A PANTHER.

215

fix ! The weapon was for the present utterly
useless. I feared that most of my cartridges
were in like condition. The prospect for the
night, when the Indian Devil should arrive upon
the scene, was not a cheerful one. I pushed on
miserably for another mile or so, anil then pre-
pared to camp.

" First of all, I built such a fire as I thought
would impress upon the Indian Devil a due sense
of my importance and my mysterious powers.
At a safe distance from the fire I spread out my
cartridges to dry, in the fervent hope that the
water had not penetrated far enough to render
them useless. My gun I put where it would thaw
as quickly as possible.

" Then I cut enough fire-wood to blaze all
night. With my snow-shoes I dug a deep hollow
at one side of the fire. The fire soon melted
the snow beneath it and brought it down to the
level whereon I was to place my couch. I may
say that the ground I had selected was a gentle
slope, and the fire was below my bed, so that
the melting snows could run off freely. Over
my head I fixed a good, firm ' lean-to ' of spruce
saplings, thickly thatched with boughs. Thus I
secured myself in such a way that the Indian
Devil could come at me only from the side on
which the fire was burning. Such approach, I
congratulated myself, would be little to His
Catship's taste.

" By the time my shelter was completed it was
full night in the woods. My fire made a ruddy
circle about the camp, and presently I discerned
the panther, gliding in and out among the tree-
trunks on the outer edges of the circle. He
stared at me with his round green eyes, and I
returned the gaze with cold indifference. I was
busy putting my gun in order. I would not en-
courage him lest he might grow too familiar
before I was ready for his reception.

" Between my gleaming walls of snow I had
worked up a temperature that was fairly tropical.
/Vway up overhead, among the pine-tops, a few
large stars glimmered lonesomely. How far
away seemed the world of my friends on whom
these same stars were looking down ! I won-
dered how those at home would feel if they
could see me there by my solitary camp-fire,
watched relentlessly by that prowling and vin-
dictive beast.

" Presently, finding that I made no attack
upon him, the brute slipped noiselessly up to
within a dozen paces of the fire. There he
crouched down in the snow and glared upon
me. I hurled a flaming brand at him and he
sprang backward, snarling, into the gloom. But
the brand spluttered in the snow and went out,
whereupon the brute returned to his post. Then
I threw another at him ; but he regarded it this
time with contempt, merely drawing aside to
give it room. When it had gone black out, he
approached, pawed it over, and sniffed in su-
premest contempt. Then he came much nearer,
so that I thought he was about to spring upon
me. I moved discreetly to the other side of the
fire.

" By this time the gun was ready for action,
but not so the cartridges. They were lying
further from the fire and dangerously near my
unwelcome visitor. I perceived that I must make
a diversion at once.

" Selecting a resinous stick, into which the fire
had eaten deeply, so that it held a mass of glow-
ing coals, I launched it suddenly with such care-
ful aim that it struck right between the brute's
forelegs. As it scorched there, he caught and bit
at it angrily, dropped it with a screaming snarl,
and shrank farther away. When he crouched
down, biting the snow, I followed up my advan-
tage by rushing upon him with a blazing roll of
birch-bark. He did not await my onset, but
bounded oft" among the trees, where I could hear
him grumbling in the darkness over his smarting
mouth. I left the bark blazing in the snow while
I went back to see to my precious cartridges.

" Before long the panther reappeared at the
limits of the lighted circle, but seemed not
quite so confident as before. Nevertheless, it was
clear that he had set his heart on making a meal
of me, and was not to be bluffed out of his design
by a few firebrands.

" I discovered that all my ball-cartridges were
spoiled ; but there were a few loaded with shot,
which the water had not penetrated. From these
I withdrew the shot, and substituted ball and
slugs. Then, slipping a ball-cartridge into one
barrel, slugs into the other, and three or four
extra cartridges into a handy pocket, I waited
for my opponent to recover his confidence. As
he seemed content to wait awliile, I set about

2l6

TRACKED BV A PANTHER.

I SEIZED MV Gl'N ANP

broiling my partridges, for 1 was becoming clam-
orously hungry.

" So also was the ])anther, as it seemed.
When the odor of those partridges stole seduc-
tively to his nostrils, he once more approached
my fire, and this time with an air of stem deter-
mination quite different from his former easy
insolence.

" The crisis had come. I seized my gun and
knelt down behind the fire. I arranged a burn-
ing log in such a manner that I could grasp and
wield it with both hands in an emergency.
Just as the animal drew himself together for a
spring, I fired one barrel, — that containing the
ball, — and shattered his lower jaw. Mad with
pain and fury, he sprang. The contents of my
second barrel, a heavy charge of slugs, met him

full in the breast, and lie fell in a heap at my
feet.

" .As he lay there, struggling and snarling and
tearing up the snow, I slipped in another car-
tridge ; and the ne.xt moment a bullet in his brain
put an end to his miseries.

" After this ])erformance, I ate my partridges
with a very grateful heart, and slept the sleep of
the just and the victorious. The skin of that
audacious Indian Devil lies now in my study,
where Sam is continually desecrating it with
his irreverent shoes."

A few moments after Stranion had finished
his story, the camp on the Big Squatook was
wrapped in slumber, and the loons out in the
bosom of the moonlit lake were laughing to one
another unheeded.

BERTHA'S DEBUT.

By Elia W. Peattie.

^HE theater was crowded
from the topmost gallery
to the orchestra chairs.
Out at the entrance was
the legend " Standing-room
only." Warmth and music
and perfume floated out to
the loungers in the vestibule.
People chatted in the dim
light and commented upon
the new mural decorations, or wondered who
the people in the boxes could be. Presently the
orchestra finished the overture. The " gods "
in the gallery grew impatient and began to call
for the curtain to rise. Better-bred people
wondered what could be the matter, and read
the cast, and all the advertisements, and then
read the cast again. There were on the list names
of men and women famous in their profession ;
and, indeed, every name on it except one was
known to the impatient audience. This was a
very short name half-way -down the cast, and it
stood opposite the character Richard, Duke
of York. " Joe Wade," they .read, — " Master
Joe Wade," with the tliought, "Now, where
did he come from ? " and then they fell to
studying the curtain and the orchestra began
the bars which served as a prelude to the open-
ing of the play.

At this time, behind the scenes everything was
in a .state of .systematic busde. Each man or
woman had something to do and was at work.
The only calm figure on the busy scene was
that of Walsh, the stage-manager, — a middle-
aged man with iron-gray hair and mustache.
His face wore a serious look, heightened by the
furrows about the mouth. He sent directions
and commands flying to unseen stage-hands
in the mysterious region below the floor, or in
Vol. XVII.— 25.

the dimly lighted space above. " Take that
' fly ' out of the way ! " he shouted to one ;
" Hoist up the moon about two feet. Bring an
extra ' tormentor ' ' down left ' ! Get out of the
way, Pie ! " — this last to a sharp-featiu-ed lad of
sixteen who acted as call-boy. " Is everything
ready for the first act ? " " Yes," came the
answer. " All right ! " said Walsh ; " clear the
stage." And there was a scurrying of feet as all
the stage-hands left the set-scene and huddled
in the wings to watch the opening action, or
went oft" about their other duties. One man,
watching through a peep-hole in the curtain,
saw the signal from the leader of the orchestra,
and communicated it to the curtain-man by two
sharp strokes on a gong, and sprang oft' the
stage as the curtain with a steady crackle
rolled itself in ponderous folds into the upper
region. Kings, queens, and lords moved about
through the mimic tragedy. Pie, the call-
boy, hurried to and fro in a state of distrac-
tion. The men would stop to talk and the
women to put the finishing touches to their
"•make-up," and they all seemed to object to
being ordered about by a boy with freckles ; but
it was the business of Pie to have every one in
readiness to step upon the .stage at the proper
moment. The great tragedian was in excellent
mood, and he limped and frowned through the
part of Richard the Third (for it was Shaks-
pere's tragedy of that name they were repre-
senting) in a truly blood-curdling manner.
He was as wicked and cruel as any one could
wish, and the people applauded him to the
echo. In the midst of this highly successful
act, Pie happened to go to the dressing-room
which was assigned to the two little princes
who had come there to be smothered. The
Prince of Wales was there, in an elegant velvet

2l8

BERTHAS DEBUT.

(Jan.

suit and in a state of despair. He was the son
of an actor, and had been on the stage ever
since he could tell taffy from peanuts. Even
earlier, in fact, for he had been carried on in his
long clothes and had then caused every woman
in tlie theater to exclaim, " How lovely ! " This
small gentleman was in a rage truly princely.

" That little dunce, Joe Wade, has n't turned
up," he said. " Now, what am I to do ? I
can't go on and speak his lines and mine too,
and I suppose the audience won't be satisfied
with only one prince."

Pie rushed to Mr. Walsh. " Duke of York
is n't here, sir," he cried.

" Not here ! " said the stage-manager, in a
tone of dismay. " Let us see, — that is Wade,
is n't it ? "

" Yes, sir."

" I wonder what can be the matter with him.
He rehearsed this morning letter perfect. Has
n't any word come from his mother ? "

" I '11 see, sir," said Pie as he dashed off to
ascertain. The stage-manager stepped quickly
to the dressing-room of the tragedian, where, in
a brief absence from the stage, the cruel Richard
was eating a sandwich with evident relish.

" The boy who rehearsed the younger prince
has n't showed up yet," said Walsh.

" Oh, come now," said the malignant Gloster.
"That 's too bad. He was a bright lad, 'so
young and yet so subtle. ' "

" Can't we cut the Duke of York scene ? "
suggested the stage-manager.

" No, sir," retorted the other. " Not a line
shall be cut out. Is n't there any one else?"

" I can't think of any one else who can do
the part," said the stage-manager.

" I should think you would have an under-
study all coached ready for an emergency like
this," said the actor with considerable spirit. " To
cut that scene will be to spoil the act, and then
we '11 catch it from the crirics in the morning."

" Well, it 's all we can do to run a theater, let
alone a Foundlings' Home," retorted Walsh.

Pie rushed up in his usual state of breathless-
ness. " There 's word come, sir, from Wade."

" Well, what is it ? "

" It 's his sister, sir. She says he 's broke his
leg."

" Here 's a pretty mess ! " Walsh stamped

out to invesrigate. He found, standing in the
wings, a very chilly little girl, who began talking
fast, as he came up.

" You 're Mr. Walsh, are n't you ? Joey 's
broken his leg. He fell down the back stairs
just as he was starting to come here. He tried
to come even after that, sir, and wanted to make
Mamma think he could limp all the better on
'countofit. But 't was no use. He just r^/////;/'/."
Bertha flung out her hands in her earnestness;
then clasped them again. " And he cried so
hard. He said the piece would all be spoiled.
That it was just no good at all if the princes
were n't smothered in the tower and — and what
are you going to do, sir ? "

" Do ? " said Mr. Walsh. " I 'm in a fix."
" I suppose not another person knows the
words to say," said Bertha ; the tears dried up
in her eyes and they shone with excitement.
" No," confessed Mr. Walsh, " not a soul."
" You don't think — " the little girl stopped
and trembled, with her cheeks as red as hve
coals. "Joey '11 just go crazy if all the people
see his name on the bill, and know it was he
that spoiled the play." She choked down a
sob. " I could n't help it, sir, I really could n't.
I 've got to do something. I shall have to play
the part myself." She looked like a little general
about to storm a fort.

" Why, — have you ever played it ? "
" Lots of times, — at home with Joey."
" But would n't you be frightened at all the
people when you went on the stage ? " The
stage-manager had a gleam of hope in his eye.
" I don't think I should. It would be easier
than going home and teUing Joey the play was
spoiled. I would n't look at them. I 'd just
act. He says to me, ' How fares our loving
brother ? ' and I say, ' Well, my dread Lord ; so
must I call you now. ' "

" Bless me! — " said Walsh, half to himself.
" She knows the lines."

" Oh, yes, sir. I know all the words 'way
down to ' I shall not sleep in quiet at the
Tower.' Then I mock King Richard when he
walks, so." She drew up her arms, made an
imaginary hump and limped along, scowling.
"Then I make a face at him behind his back
and tell him, ' I 'm afraid of my uncle Clar-
ence' angry ghost.' "

BERTHAS DEBUT.

219

" Capital ! " said the stage-manager. " I '11
take the risk. I 'm afraid there 's no time to
lose. Here ! " — he held out his hand. She took
it, and trotted along, stumbling over the shawl
that was falling from her shoulders. He led
her to the dressing-room of one of the ladies,
to which he presently brought the Duke of
York's costume. He explained the emergency,
and the good-natured actress aided Bertha to
put on the little prince's dress. The next half-
hour passed like a dream.

" Mamma and Joey did n't know I was going
to act," she explained to the actress. " I 'm
afraid they '11 think something dreadful has
happened to me when they find I don't come
home, but I knew they 'd think I could n't, if
I told them. Are n't these clothes a fine fit ?
We 're exactly the same size, Joey and me.
You see it was n't only that Joey could n't bear
to break his promise, but then," — frowning a
little and looking very serious, — " we could n't
afford to lose the money, either. We '11 need it
more than ever, now that Joey's leg is broken."
She sighed, and the tears welled up in her eyes.
The lady put her arm around her and drew her
close.

"Try hard not to be frightened," said she.
" Don't think about the crowd in front, at all."

" No," broke in Bertha, " I '11 just think of
Joey."

" And when you stand still," said the actress,
" stand perfectly still. Don't move your hands
or feet unless you have reason to. Be sure and
look straight at the person you are talking to,
and when you speak, hold up your chin a little
so the sound will go out into the house. It will
be easier to speak in a high tone." She showed
her how, gave a few finishing touches to her
hair, — for they found it prettier than the wig, —
and almost before Bertha knew it, she was on
the stage.

In the mean time, His Royal Highness, the
Prince of Wales, had been in a sad way. " I
hate to act with a girl," he said, and kicked about
his histrionic legs. " She 's a greeny, too, and
probably does n't know her lines. She 's sure
to spoil my part. I had counted on making a
great hit, but she does n't know anything about
the proper ' business ' of tlie part. These
wretched ' amachures ' never do." But the

talented young man was compelled to bow his
head to fate and go on the stage at the proper
cue.

Bertha's head swam a little, and the words
the others were speaking sounded far off. She
glanced at the audience. It seemed to rise
from her feet up, up to the very ceiling. Then it
seemed to swell into one immense face with
myriad eyes all looking at her. For one terrible
moment she was tempted to cover her face with
her hands and rush from the stage. Then she
remembered Joey at home crying with pain and
disappointment, and she was recalled to her

senses by the well-remembered words : " How
fares our loving brother ? " She tried to speak
as if she always had been a prince and was
quite used to talking in such high-sounding
language. She tried to hate the wicked Rich-
ard, as she had heard her mother tell Joey to
do, and to speak as fiercely and saucily as she
could to him. She pulled at his garments and
mimicked his gait, and screwed up her face in
imitation of his, and tried to speak with great
politeness to the royal prince ; and in her heart
all the time whispered " Joey ! Joey ! " The

220

BERTHAS DEBUT.

[Jan.

house became quieter as she went on ; tlie child
was so intent upon her work. She never faltered
till the last word was spoken, but when she was
safe in the wings again, she began to feci faint
and weak. The speeches on the stage were
lost in a burst of a])plause that swelled and
swelled until it grew quite deafening.

•• What is it ? " she said, very much frightened,
turning to the Prince of Wales.

The stage-manager came up.

AFTER THE PLAV.

" Well, well," he said, smiling for once that
evening, " I believe you '11 have to go back."

" And do it all over again ? " said Bertha
aghast. She feared that she had made some
dreadful mistake.

" No, no; go on and bow to the audience and
come right back again."

" I '11 lead her on," said the Prince of Wales.

" No," said Walsh, " she 'd better go alone."

" ."Vre diey pleased, sir ? " asked Bertha as
the applause still continued.

" Well, what a little greenhorn I " ejaculated
the prince. The actress who had dressed her
gently pushed her on the stage again. " I 'm
just cheating," she thought to herself; "they
think it 's Joey."

'• Bow to them, my dear," said the great tra-

gedian in an undertone. .\ litde girl about her
own age leaned far out of the nearest box and
smiled at her, and flung something that fell just
at Bertha's feet. It was a bunch of beautiful
pink roses. Somebody picked them up and
handed them to her. The audience applauded
more loudly than ever. The child looked so
pretty and small and shy. " Tliese flowers are
for Joey," said Bertha's guilty little heart. She
formed a sudden resolution. She walked straight
do\vn to the footlights,
holding the beautiful
roses in her hand. The
people were quiet in-
standy, wondering what
could be coming now.
She held up her chin,
as the actress had told
her to do, and spoke
high. " Please," she said,
" please, you must n't
think I 'm Joey. He 's
liroken his leg and could
not come. I 'm only
Bertha." Then she grew
terrified at the sound of
her voice, speaking alone
in that great place to so
many people, and, bur)--
ing her face in the roses,
ran from the stage in a
^ tumult of alarm and tears.

When Bertha was
dressed in her own clothes again and ready to
go home, Richard the Third came to her, all
dres-sed in his ermine as he was, and took her
in his arms and kissed her. It was something
to remember all her life, if only Bertha had
known it. Then he hurried back to his duty,
leaving something in her hand that Bertha was
then too excited to examine, but which she held.
" I think my carriage has come," said the
actress who played the part of Lady .\nne ;
'T 'd better send the child home in it."

" You must play Joey's part till he is well
again," said the stage-manager. Bertha nodded.
They asked her where she lived, told the
driver, and Bertha was put in among the warm
cushions of the carriage, and whirled over the
streets toward her home. She sat quite on the

BERTHAS DEBUT.

221

edge of the seat in her trepidation, and held
both hands close shut, one around the roses and
the other around the great man's gift. She was
afraid the driver would make a mistake in the
house, but he found the right one, and when she
was lifted out she flew up the steps like a bird.
The door was open and Mamma was standing
on the threshold, looking very pale and anxious.

" Oh, Bertha, where have you been ? " But
the little daughter's bright face stopped her
with the sentence half spoken.

" Is Joey asleep ? " whispered Bertha; and as
the mother shook her head, the httle girl could
contain herself no longer. "Joey ! Joey ! " she

cried, springing into the room, " I played it. I
said all your words, and they thought I was you.
But I told them I was n't. And a little girl
ga^•e me the flowers, and Richard the Third
gave me" — she opened her hand and looked
at the contents. It was a twenty-dollar gold-
piece. It might ha\'e been a penny for all
Bertha cared. " King Richard is real nice off
the stage, is n't he, Joey? Oh, Mamma! 1
hope you were n't very frightened."
" Bertha," said Joey, " you 're a brick ! "
" Oh, I 'm so glad you think so ! " she said.
Two litde tears started in her eyes. '' Mamma,
I 'm so tired. Won't you put me to bed ? "

IN THE TENEMENT.

{B^/orc Christmas.)

By Malcolm Douglas.

DADDY 's lost the job he had a-drivin' on the line.
An' so he 's took to carryin' a advertisin'-sign ;
All 'at he 's a-makin' now is fifty cents a day,
Walkin' up an' down, an' givin' little bills away.

Daddy he tells Mammy 'at it won't be long afore
He fin's anudder job at sumpin 'at '11 pay him more ;
An' Bess an' me 's a-hopin' 'at he '11 git it soon, a-cause
It 's putty nearly 'bout the time to look fur Santy Klaws !

I 'm 'mos' eight years old, an' Bess is Htder 'an me.
An' Mammy 's been a-promisin' 'at we could have a tree
Big as what the Dolans had las' year on Chrisa-mus,
An' there 's seven little Dolans, an' there 's on'y two of us !

But Mammy now is worried 'bout the rent a-comin' on,
An' we don't drink no more coffee, an' the bag o' flour 's gone ;
An' the coal 'at 's in the closet is a-gittin' down so fast
We sif's the cinders over twict to try an' make it last.

So it don't much look as if a tree 's a-goin' to be had,

An' we 've stopped a-a.skin' Mammy 'cause it on'y makes her mad,

An' we both have made it up to stop a-plaguin' Daddy too

Fur centses to buy candy with, jus' like we used to do.

But we keep a-hopin' to oursel's it won't be alius so.
An' a-prayin' an' a-prayin', though we don't let Mammy know.
If there 's a job to spare, 'at Daddy '11 git it right away —
Sumpin' 'at '11 bring him more 'an fifty cents a day !

A WELL-FILLED CHIMNEY.

By Mabel Loomis Todd.

A wiDF. window in my little house lets in a
great many beautiful sights through the day, and
all the year it fills the room with pleasantness.

When the air is a whirling confusion of snow-
flakes, and the birches standing in the midst of
the falling snow can hardly be distinguished
from the flying whiteness, as well as when the
same fairy trees, fluttering their dainty leaves in
imperceptible breezes, quiver in the August
sunshine, tliere are lovely and satisfying pictures
in that favored room, whether snow-birds flit by,
or robins and song-sjiarrows.

In early May, the outlines of the trees grow
softer against the sky — a grayish mist enfolds
each little branch and twig. The elms and
maples dream of their coming foliage — not far
behind such gentle prophecy. Just at sunset,
all over the lawn the fresh young clovers fold
their littie green hands, and bow their heads
above them for the quiet night — and then some-
thing interesting happens.

While the sun is still bright, but the shadows,
growing longer, stretch the gables in silhouette
across the meadow, suddenly the air is filled
with a soft flutter of wings, and a sound of twit-
tering falls from the sky. A grand procession
of swallows vibrates above us, sweeping around
in a great circle, so swifdy that our eyes can not
follow the separate flights. Where they came

from wc did not notice ; but a moment before
the blue sky was clear, and now, looking black
in the sunlight, these busy little visitors float,
shar]>ly outlined, against that airy background.

Around and around they sweep, sometimes in
a solid mass of dark, fluttering wings — often
scattered far apart in their invisible, circling
track, but ever around, like forest leaves blown
wildly by November gales. They keep up this
mad whirl for an hour, while the sunhght grows
less and less, and the cool dampness brings out
the sweet odor of fresh grass.

Then Millicent and I sit at the big window,
and watch for what may happen next.

Near us stands an old house with a generous
chimney in the middle, toward which, as a cen-
ter, this swinging circle gradually contracts.
The tremulous flutter above is like the fall of
raindrops ; but, while we look, the wings are
frequently spread and fixed, here and there a
httle bird floats smoothly around the chimney-
top, only to flutter onward again in a few
seconds still more swiftly, as the wind or the
notion takes him.

Near the end of their sunset flying, often all
the swallows reverse their direction, suddenly
doubling backward, until, with a quick " order
out of chaos," the circle is re-formed with every
bird turned the other way.

A WELL-FILLED CHIMNEY.

223

Having short, stubby tails, they lack the
grace of the beautiful bam-swallows ; but our
deUght in these fascinating neighbors is not
strictly measured by length of tail.

Finally the circle grows almost confusingly
small; and, as we look, sLk — eight — ten — four-
teen drop quickly into the capacious chimney,
while the rest keep on in their dizzy whirl more
madly than before. One or two pretend to go
in, fluttering coquettishly for an instant at the
opening, only to dash off again into the free air
with triumphant energy. A Utde steadying of
tiny bodies by quivering wings for the descent,
and nine more plunge in, not precisely head-
first, but still in such tumultuous and quick
succession that MOhcent wonders how all can
possibly setde comfortably so soon. Then fol-
low six more ; those outside still flashing through
their circle as if intoxicated wath the joy of
motion. Group after group pitches in, until we
imagine that the whole chimney must be soUdly
packed with them ; but the numbers above still
fly on, to all appearance undiminished.

Twilight grows deeper; MUlicent's bromi
eyes are heavy, and she rests her. head
against my shoulder as we watch; but she
wishes to wait until the last little swallow shall
be comfortably tucked into his sooty bed before
she goes to her white one.

At last the circling procession is really thin-
ning. We can see that fewer remain outside,
while the in-tumbling groups grow more fre-
quent.

Fourteen — eighteen — twenty now dive in at
once. Finally all are safely stowed away but
one, which flies around the house and bams for
several minutes more, as if searching for stray
children needing care.

The sky is almost dark now, but very soon
against the ashes of western brightness this
faithful little guardian flutters above the well-
filled chamber, then, hesitating an instant, peace-
fully drops in, and only the piping of frogs breaks
the silence of the spring evening.

Would it not be entertaining to quietly open
that chimney, as Audubon opened the old syca-
more tree in Kentucky, and see the many httle
bodies hanging close together by their claws —
supported as well by their sharp tail-feathers
— upon the black walls ?

In former years these swallows always occu-
pied hollow trees and other natural openings,
hanging, as now, methodically side by side. But
they choose, in these days, almost exclusively,
cliimneys for their home, building their nests of
twigs cemented by saliva, and raising two broods
of young each season.

E.xcept when it rains, this performance, which
I have described to you, goes on every night.
In rainy evenings we watch for them in vain.
Perhaps they go to bed very early in the after-
noon — at all events they have no sunset pa-
rade. But night after night, when the sky is
clear, come the twittering, and the fluttering,
and the sweeping circle with its occasional re-
verse — the tumbling into the chimney in
groups; and finally the lone little sentinel
searching the quiet evening air.

And one season we counted them every
night for three weeks — two of us independ-
ently writing down the number in each group
as it went in. One of us has a mathematical
mind, while the other has not ; but, nevertheless,
the two results came out within twent)- of each
other every time. And how many do you think
there were ? How many Uttle bedfellows
dropped into that old chimney, while a silver-
haired couple sat alone in the quaint cottage
rooms below, listening to the birds' shrill good-
nights ?

" 'Leven or seventeen," said a little girl who
had not watched them -with us, but who was in-
terested in guessing.

" Sixty or eighty," answered an older friend.

There were between eight hundred and
twenty, and eight hundred and forty; and
Audubon tells even more surprising tales of
the niunber of birds found crowded together.

anuary

K..Pyle.

The shrill wind blew about the house
And through the pines all night :

The snowflak.es whirled across the fields
And hid the fence from sight .

By dawn the drifts had blown so deep
No horse nor sleigh could go :

The dog-house and the chicken -coops
Were buried in the snow .

There was no thought of school tha t day ;

We worked witn shovels all ,
And cleared a path from house to barn ;

The snow was like a wall .

I wished our house was covered up ,
Like that one in the book

My Grandma showed to me one day
Beside the chimney-nook .

The story said the chimney-pot
Just showed above the snow ,

And all day long the lamps were lit
Down in the house below .

214

tosq

Bv Helen Thayer Hutcheson

t/|Vi '^1-

■'IV *.

'//

To-day in the garden I heard a complaining,
And little tears dripping as if it were raining.
And there sat a Lady-bug
S^^.^*^^- "i^ under a leaf,

"*'"'■ ""^ With a Spider's-web handker-

chief, sobbing with grief!
I stopped all astonished and

asked her, " What is it ? "
And she said, " Little Allie 's
gone off on a visit
For six weary weeks, and oh ! how shall I

bear it !
The sunshine 's not bright without Allie to
share it."

I met an old Crow in the midst of the

meadow.
He stood on one
leg like a sulky
black shadow,
And croaked as
he stood there,
so solemn and
sober,
" Allie is gone till
the first of
October ! "
The Bumble-bee heard it, the foolish old

hummer,
How Allie was
gone for the
rest of the
summer.
" Six weeks with-
out Allie ! I
wish they
were over ! "
He boomed
out his grief
in the depths
of the clover.
The Wren wiped his eye with the tip of his
feather.
Vol. XVII.— 26.

I 'd rather have six weeks of hard, rainy

weather ! "
The Rose in the woods told her buds to stop

blowing,
' For Allie can't see them and what 's the use

growing ! "
There was also a Firefly, young and romantic.
When he heard she was gone, he was very

near frantic ;
A-thinking of

Allie he sat up

all night,
And wept till his

tears nearly

put out his

light.

A Butterfly, too, with

some gold on his

wings,
When he heard that Allie

had gone to the springs,
Was cross as a griffin for half of an hour.
And made up a face at a sweet little flower,
A dear Httle Lily that grew in the valley.
And told it, it was not so pretty as Allie.

Now, there was a green Grasshopper sat in

the stubble,
Sat still there and listened, with long legs bent

double.
And when all the creatures had finished their

grumbling.
She set off a-hopping without ever stumbling ;
She left bugs

and birds, W

bees and x i f//

blossoms \Y(,!Mf'\:

she van
ished,

" I '11 hop till I find her !

'-^W^- ^

OOK^

k^>

WfH^TZ

By HtLiiN Thayer Hutcheson.

.\RER and clearer than monarch and minister,
Rabble that gabble and hypocnte sinister,
Warriors and sages of far-away ages,
Arc the Fools that flit through the historical

j)ages.
They gazed somewhat dazed . a

through their patches r^^
and i)owder, ^ ^

I'hey wondered and blundered and ever

laughed louder ;
While crown tumbled down, and while

creed flew to pieces, j^

Their range was the change of their daily

caprices.
While savage did ravage and bigotry tortured,
They rambled or gambled, or planted an orchard.
They clicked the light heel in the strathspey and reel.
Built castles, held wassails, chased moths, and played tennis;
Broke the lance for fair France, and went
masked in gay Venice.

They spent as they went, and were reckless of

rules.
Bade defiance to science, and scoffed at the

schools.
Had their flings at their kings, and were pert to

the proudest;
Must joke if they spoke, and themselves laughed

the loudest;

THE FOOLS WALTZ.

227

Winking and wooing, whatever was doing,

Though storms of reforms and rebelhons were brewing.

Talking and mocking the age that they grew in,

They quaffed the gay draught round the red fires of ruin.

Smihng and sneering, they flit out of hearing.
They bow themselves airily out of our pages ;

No sound underground of their
jesting and jeering,
The dear litde Fools of
the far-away ages !

■//■/

^r^^'

Can marble rest heavy on all that gay bevy,

Who parted light-hearted, and knew no returning ?

Are there ghosts full of laughter that haunt the hereafter,
Too mocking for bliss, and too merry for burning ?

Remember — forget them — it never will fret them,

Who gibed at misfortune whenever she met them ;

At joust and at revel cast care to the devil.

And lived all their lives on whoever
would let them.

Concede them the meed that is due the departed !

Slight thinker, deep drinker, lax friend, and light lover ;

A tear not too tender, for they were light-hearted;

A laugh not too loud, for their laughter is over;

A prayer light as air for the dead and gone Fools,

Too light and too slight to be tyrants or tools !

Who with jest and with zest took the world as they found it ;

Perhaps they did best just by dancing around it !

y^^cX.

Bv Helen Thavek Hutcheson.

Servian hearths the Christmas fire
Did slowly molder and expire.
In Servian hearts there glowed a flame
N'o time shall (juench, no tyrants tame.

Through royal Petersburg the Czar
Rode in his slow, triumphal car ;
The Christmas bells rang loud and sweet
Before the Liberator's feet.

At liutharest. where snow lay white
Beneath the friendly veil of night,
Was ushered in, \vith captive state,
The vanquished of the Czar and fate

His brow was stern — on Plevna's plain
The snow fell fast upon the slain,
The Prophet's standards fled to sea;
Roumania — Sersia — they are free!

Roumania's daughter, unaw^are,
Had caught the glance of stem despair ;
She smiled on him with childish grace.
The vanquished tyrant of her race ;

[This poem recounts an incident at the time of the Russian victory which hberated Christian Servia and Rou-
mania from Moslem rule. Osman Pasha commanded the Turks in the defense of Plevna during the war between
Russia and Turkey. Though Plevna was taken, he had shown himself so brave and skillful as to win the admi-
ration even of his enemies. While Osman was a prisoner, and on his way through Bucharest, the capital of
Roumania, a little Roumanian girl, touched by his dejected expression, ran forward and placed a flower in the hand
of the defeated general. ]

223

POEMS BY HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.

For comfort in this bitter hour
She laid within his hand a flower ;
The captive's eyes with tears were dim,
He kissed the lips that smiled on him.

229

Sweet pledge of peace, and debt confessed
Between oppressor and oppressed !
An echo thrilling Moslem pride :
■ Good-will to men at Christmas-tide."

The Crescent wanes — the Star ascends —
The reign of force and terror ends ;
And love hath overcome the sword
Upon the Birthday of the Lord.

.-^^

A KING IN EGYPT.

Bv Helkn Thayer Hutcheson.

I THINK I lie by the lingering Nile,
I think I am one that has lain long while,
My lips sealed up in a solemn smile,
In the lazy land of the loitering Nile.

I think I lie in the Pyramid,
And the darkness weighs on the closed eyelid,
And the air is heavy where I am hid,
With the stone on stone of the Pyramid.

I think there are graven godhoods grim,
That look from the walls of my chamber dim,
And the hampered hand and the muffled limb
Lie fixed in the spell of their gazes grim.

I think I lie in a languor vast,
Xumb, dumb soul in a body fast,
Waiting long as the world shall last.
Lying cast in a languor vast

Lying muffled in fold on fold,
With the gum and the gold and the spice enrolled.
And the grain of a year that is old, old, old,
Wound around in the fine-spun fold.

The sunshine of Eg)'pt is on my tomb ;
I feel it warming the srill, thick gloom.
Warming and waking an old perfume.
Through the carven honors upon my tomb.

The old sunshine of Egypt is on the stone ;
And the sands lie red that the wind hath sown.
And the lean, lithe lizard at play alone
SHdes like a shadow across the stone.

And I lie with the Pyramid over my head,
I am Ipng dead, lying long, long dead,
With my days all done, and my words all said,
And the deeds of my days written over my head.

HELEN THAYER HUTCHESON.

Many of our readers will have noticed, in the
volume of St. Nicholas for the past year, sev-
eral poems signed by a new name, that of Helen
Thayer Hutcheson. In the preceding pages
of this number, we print four more by the same
author. The sixteen poems published up to
this date reveal so remarkable a talent, and
show so unusual a range, that we desire to call
the attention of our readers (and especially, per-
haps, that of our older readers) to work, the fine-
ness of which might not receive its due appre-
ciation in the haste of ordinary reading.

These poems were written by a young girl,
whose short life was most uneventful, and
whose experiences were bounded by the small
circle of a quiet home. Verses like "A Christ-
mas Letter," " To-day in the Garden," " A
Wee World of My Own," or " Discovered "
are, perhaps, only the light singing of a happy
heart. But it is singing in perfect harmony with
the tune set by the winds and waters, and the
trill of birds. " The Song of the Caged Canary "
shows a more finished art, and is rich with the
warmth of color and sweetness of sound that
fill •• the land sun-haunted." " The Days of the
Daisies," again, fairly dances down the page, in
the airiest, gayest, most fantastical measure, so
that one has but to close one's eyes to see myri-
ads of white and gold heads nodding and sway-
ing to the pipe of the wind, and to smell the
warm earth of the June meadows. " The Last
Cricket" is, with its playful pathos, a dainty
little bit of melody, still different in character-
istics. But of the poems in this January number
of St. Nicholas, two — "A King in Egypt,"
and "The Fools' Waltz " — are so unusual and of
so high merit, that they are, doubtless, the young
poet's latest and most considered work. Full
of simplicity, truth, and imagination, showing an
increasing mastery of form and a growing sense
of the beauty and capacity of English song, these
poems justify our belief that had Helen Hutch-
eson Hved she would have taken acknowledged
rank with the leading poets of the time.

Yet so unconscious of exceptional powers was

she that it seems never to have occurred to her
to print her poems ; and it was only after she
had passed beyond the sound of the world's
praise, that the world knew what high praise she
had deserved. After her death the loving friends
who had kept all her manuscripts since her
earliest childhood were persuaded to allow these
poems to be printed ; and to meet a natural de-
sire that something might be known of the life
of the young poet, one who dearly cherishes her
memory has kindly furnished the following brief
but sympathetic sketch. — Editor St. Nicholas.

Near a pretty village of the West, on a gentle
slope overlooking a river where sparkling waters
shimmer through the foliage of over-arching
trees, stands a many-gabled cottage — the
birthplace and early home of Helen Thayer.

Lovely scenery, groves full of wild birds,
gardens, domestic pets, story-books, and loving
parents formed a happy little world in which
her young spirit, like a tender bud, began a
growth that afterward blossomed into rare
sweetness and beauty.

In her early childhood, with her fairy-like
form, golden-brown curls, and delicate face
brimming with life and intelligence, she seemed
some ethereal being from a brighter realm.

Before the pleasant paths of learning opened
to her, she amused herself as an only child
may who is left much to its own resources.
She added to her play-houses whole menager-
ies of animals which she cut out of card-paper ;
dressed up her kittens like little old ladies ;
taught pet grasshoppers to walk a tight rope
stretched above the window sill ; and rocked
her dolls to lullabies of her own composing.
She was, in truth, a little improvisatrice, and
often walked the floor chanting original stories
in verse, unheard and unnoticed, as she
supposed.

A few years later, her surroundings had
changed, and she was far away from the cot-
tage where she was bom. In her new home
in the environs of Washington, her young soul

232

HELEN TIIAYEK HL'TCHESON.

continually grew in the love of the good, the
true, and the beautiful. She was always the
brave champion of the weak and oppressed ;
ready to bestow her dearest possession on any
child less fortunate than herself, and tenderly
humane toward every helpless, sufiering thing,
bird, beast, or insect. With an artist's hand
and a ])oet's soul, amid ordinary childish em-
ployments, every day brought forth some new

HKLEN THAVEft HUTCHESON.

device or fancy, in picture or verse. Logical
withal, and possessing a rare gift of language,
she often amused and interested her elders
with her apt reasonings on the more serious
questions of life.

Her parents, finding the excitement of school
life injurious, decided that most of her educa-
tion must be carried on under the home roof —
especially as the national capital with its vast
library and other public institutions furnished
unusual facilities for self-culture.

Living ^■ery much in the seclusion of her
suburban home, close to the wild-wood, ram-
bling or driving over hill and dale, peering into
hidden nooks, and learning the sweet secrets

of nature, it is not strange that she found that
" Wee World " of her own, or discovered the
•■ pale-tinted blossoms that nobody knew, saving
the wind and the sun and the dew."

i\Liny poems written between the ages of ten
and fifteen show that life passed happily, rich
in bright fancies, and pleasantly divided between
study and recreation.

Helen Thayer composed verses almost from
her babyhood, " making them up," indeed, before
her small hands had learned how to write down
the |)leasant fancies that came into the little
curly head. Even these childish verses showed
how full of sunshine was her life and how much
she lived in a land of her own fancies. But by
the time she was twelve, her poetry began to
indicate that it was the work of a true poet.
For a poet is a maker of beautiful realities in
the world of imagination, which prosaic peoi)le
would never be able to see for themselves, but
which they are glad of, and much the richer for,
when the poet has ])resented them.

Soon came high anfl pure friendships to en-
large and brighten her young world ; especially
the love of one whom she delighted to call
" sister," and whose charming little family was
the source of many an inspiration. To see her
the center of that lovely group with her slight
figure, fair young face, and shining hair — her
fingers deftly weaving " daisy chains " or trac-
ing humorous sketches — her young auditors
entranced with the words that fell from her
lips — was to see a picture not easily forgotten.

A young friend, pure and sweet like herself,
speaks of her as " one who lived among the
flowers of the wild-wood, one with them, in-
teq^reting their beauty and sweetness into pic-
tures and language — traces," she adds, "of the
sojourning among us of a fair spirit passed for-
ever beyond the perishable."

She died at the early age of twenty-six. And
her sweet life brightened to its close, for the halo
of a love rare and tender, doing homage to her
womanhood, tinged all her sky with rose color,
which never darkened, but merged into the
light of Heaven, whose glory she entered on the
morning of April 29, 1886.

THE ROUTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

By Edmund Alton.

Seventh Paper * Union may deal directly, through their execu-
tives or other officers, with one another; but

FOREIGN INTERCOURSE. they have . no standing, as independent sover-
eignties, before the nations of the earth. In

The sovereign relations between empires of matters international, their poUtical influence is

the past led to the early recognition of certain unknown ; the authority of the Republic has

general rules of right which have come down to then full sway.t An American abroad flour-

the nations of to-day with the supreme force ishes his passport as " a citizen of the United

and dignity of established public law. The States."

authority of every government is absolute Following time-honored and universal fashion,

within its own dominions, and as far as a can- we have, located in various parts of the world,

non-shot from shore. The ocean is free to all. numerous agents who, under the direction of the

Our rights at home and on the high seas rest Secretary of State, keep watch on foreign matters

not upon mere international courtesy and con- of interest to our people — nearly all of the foreign

sent, but upon principles of natural reason, powers thus recognized reciprocating by send-

sanctioned by centuries of observance. The ing to the United States (as, also, to other coun-

privileges enjoyed by the United States beyond tries with whom they have commercial and

the seas, and accorded to its citizens sojourning political intercourse) similar representatives for

in foreign lands, — Uke those e.xtended by us, in like purposes. These agents are divided into

turn, to other powers, — are such as belong to two branches, — the diplomatic service and the

every people under the same unwritten " Law of consular service, — each with distinct functions.

Nations," or as are expressly secured by written The diplomatic agents reside at the capitals of

covenants between our Government and the nations and constitute " embassies," or " lega-

govemments concerned. tions " ; the various embassies, or legations, of

To the Federal Power, as remarked in the different states collected at any capital consdtut-

first chapter of this series, has been confided the ing the " Diplomatic Corps " at that place,

exclusive care and conduct of these foreign in- They are missionaries from state to state. They

terests. In their domestic relations, and within represent their respective countries as political

the limits of the Constitution, the States of the sovereignties, and carry to their posts their

* For the sixth paper of this series (which dealt with the organization of the State Department), see St. Nicholas
fur April, 18S9.

t " No State shall enter into any treaty, alliance, or confederation " ; and, " No State shall, without the consent
of the Congress . . . enter into any agreement or compact with another State or with a foreign power, or engage
in war, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent danger as will not admit of delays." — (Constitution, Article
I., Section X.) This distinction between State and Federal authority is illustrated in the matter of fugitives from
justice. " A person charged in any State with treason, felony, or other crime, who shall flee from justice and be
found in another State, shall, on demand of the executive authority of the State from which he fled, be delivered
up, to be removed to the State ha^'ing jurisdiction of the crime." — (Constitution, Article IV., Section II.) In sucha
case, the demand is made directly by the authorities of one State upon the authorities of the other. But where a
person fleeing from the vengeance of a State takes refuge in a foreign country, the State appeals to the State De-
partment of the United States, which thereupon makes demand for the surrender of the fugitive. These matters
are provided for in what are known as our " extradition treaties " with other nations, which vary as to the classes of
crimes for which persons may be extradited ; although, in certain instances, from sentiments of international comity,
fugitives have been surrendered by foreign governments, upon our demand, in the absence of any treaty provision
covering the particular cases.

Vol. XVII.— 27. • 233

234

THE ROUTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

Qan.

national credentials, or " letters of credence,"
certifymg to their official character, and re-
questing that full faith and credit be given to
their words when speaking for the government
they represent. They hold direct corrununica-
tion with the government to which they are
accredited, and it is their office to cultivate in-
ternational friendship, to negotiate treaties, and
to adjust international disputes that may arise.

The consular officers, on the other hand, are
stationed at numerous ports and other business
centers abroad, and have no official deaUngs (ex-
cept in special circumstances) with the sovereign
power of the country wherein they reside. They
represent their countrymen regarded as individ-
uals and not as a political sovereignty, — looking
after commercial interests and individual rights
and leaving to the diplomatic agents of their
government all questions of state.

Under rules formally agreed upon by the
powers of Europe, at the International Con-
gresses of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle (held in the
early part of the present century), and adopted
by the Government of the United States, diplo-
matic agents are divided into four classes: (i)
ambassadors, legates, or nuncios; (2) envoys,
ministers, or other persons accredited to sov-
ereigns ; (3) ministers resident ; and (4) charges
d'affaires accredited to ministers for foreign
affairs. Ambassadors, legates, and nuncios
possess what is styled the " representative "
character. They are supposed to represent the
person of the prince by whom they are sent,
and as such to be entitled to hold direct per-
sonal audience \vith the sovereign to whom they
are accredited. Our Government neither sends
nor receives diplomats of this grade. Legates
and nuncios represent the Pope, with whom we
have no political relations, and who therefore
has no agent at AVashington ; and as we have
not seen fit to attach the title of ambassador to
any of the representatives sent out by us, we
have been honored with no ambassadors from
other states. In point of fact, this representa-
tive distinction is of little practical value so far
as it confers the privilege of direct approach to
the throne, for diplomatic business is transacted
nowadays through the Foreign Office of every
leading government and not through personal
audiences vnih the sovereign head. Sdll, it

humors the vanity of a diplomat to be called
ambassador ; the title gives him precedence on
ceremonial occasions, and at some capitals it
gives him precedence in securing audience with
the minister for foreign affairs. The United
States, in its treatment of the Diplomatic Corps
at Washington, disregards the question of tide
in matters of business. The ministers take rank
in the diplomatic body according to the order
in which they arrive at the Seat of Govern-
ment and present their credentials, and as to
interviews with the Secretary of State they
are admitted to the audience-room in the
order in which they reach the Department and
present their cards on " Diplomatic Day." A
similar rule as to audiences is recognized at St.
Petersburg, Berlin, and elsewhere, but the fact
that it is not universally observed places our
representatives occasionally at a disadvantage.
In some countries a minister of the United
States may wait for hours in the anteroom of the
Foreign Office to gain an interview on some
state matter of the liveliest importance ; and at
the very last moment, when those outranking
him in title have come and gone and he is about
to take his turn, the representative of some insig-
nificant Asiatic power, who has just arrived with
no other object perhaps than to exchange a few
idle w-ords with the minister for foreign affairs,
goes in ahead, simply because he is styled
" ambassador," and the representative of the
great American Republic may have the door of
the audience-room closed in his face for the day.
This consideration has been the strong plea of
those who urge that our diplomatic representa-
tives to the great powers should be given loftier
titles, to put them on a business equality with
other legations at the same courts.

Our diplomatic ser\'ice to-day, numbering
upward of sixty men (not counting ordinary em-
ployees in the service of legations), consists of en-
voys extraordinary and ministers plenipotentiary
(a compound title), ministers resident, charges
d'affaires, secretaries of legation, and inter-
preters ; w'ith now and then an officer detailed
from the War or Navy Department and attached
to a legation as military or naval attache,
for the purpose of studying and reporting to
this Government the militar)' movements of
foreign powers. It also includes a diplomatic

THE ROUTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

"American secretary," two "translators and
attaches," six " attaches," and two " mihtary
attaches," — the minister being accredited to
Spain and to Peru as well as to the United
States. Japan is represented there by an envoy
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, a sec-
retary, counselor, attache, naval attache, and
chancellor.

Besides envoys extraordinary and ministers
plenipotentiary, and one or more secretaries
each, Spain has two civil attaches, Russia a
technical attache, Great Britain a civil attache
and a naval attache, and Germany a chancellor
and assistant chancellor. Turkey has an envoy
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, and a
secretary of legation ; and (passing the represen-
tarives of other countries without comment)
even Corea, as above noted, sends a complete
force headed by a minister of high rank — an
envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten-
tiary, known on the register of the State Depart-
ment as Pak Chung Yang ; a "second secretary,"
now acting as " charge d'affaires ad interim" Mr.
Ye Ha Yung; another " second secretary," Mr.
Ye Sang Jay; an "attache," Mr. Kang Chin
He, and a "foreign secretary."

The consular service of the United States
numbers upward of a thousand men, classified
as agents and consuls-general, consuls-general,
vice-consuls-general, deputy consuls-general,
consuls, vice-consuls, deputy consuls, commer-
cial agents, vice-commercial agents, deputy
commercial agents, consular agents, consular
clerks, interpreters, marshals, and clerks at con-
sulates.* Consuls-general, consuls, and com-
mercial agents are full, principal, and permanent
consular officers (the title of commercial agent
being peculiar to our system), as distinguished
from deputy consuls and consular agents, who
are subordinate officers, and vice-consuls and
vice-commercial agents, who are consular offi-
cers substituted temporarily to fill the places of
consuls-general, consuls, or commercial agents
during the absence of their principals. A
consul-general is charged with the ordinary
duties of a consul within the limits of his dis-
trict, and with the supervision of the consulates

* In addition to these, there are guards, prison-keepers, and minor employees. The term " consular officer,"
as used by Congress, includes " consuls-general, consuls, commercial agents, deputy consuls, vice-consuls, vice-
commercial agents, and consular agents, and none others."

agent at Cairo, with the title of " agent and
consul-general." The position of Egypt as a
semi-independent power prevents us from estab-
lishing a legation there ; but as we have diplo-
matic relations with that country to a limited
extent, we employ the term " agent " for what-
ever it may be worth ; it is not recognized in
European diplomacy. A representative to an
independent sovereignty should have a tide
known to the rules laid down at the Congresses
of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle.

It is the privilege of every government to
decide for itself in fixing the grade of its
representatives regardless of the importance
or unimportance of the mission, but ordinary
courtesy would prevent us from sending an
ambassador to Seoul and only a charge d'affaires
to Berlin. Among the great powers com-
pliments are even. They give what they are
given in the way of chief diplomatic officers.
Small powers, while equal to the mightiest in
point of law, are not so fastidious. The head
of our legation at Berlin is an envoy extraor-
dinary and minister plenipotentiary ; the chief
representative of Germany, at Washington, is
also an envoy extraordinary and minister
plenipotentiary. We send to Seoul a minister
resident and consul-general ; Corea, however,
outdoes us in style by sending to Washington
a representative of the second grade.

At Berlin we have, besides an envoy extraor-
dinary and minister plenipotentiary, a secre-
tary of legation, and a second secretary of
legation; the same is true of our legations at
London, Paris, Peking, and Tokei, the last two
posts being further re-enforced by an interpreter
each. At each of the several posts of St.
Petersburg, Vienna, Madrid, Constantinople,
Buenos Ayres, Rome, Mexico, Rio de Janeiro,
Lima, Bogota, Santiago, and Caracas, we are
represented by an envoy extraordinary and min-
ister plenipotentiary and a secretary of lega-
tion ; the legation at Constantinople having
also an interpreter.

The Chinese legation at Washington embraces
an envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten-
tiary, a " first secretary," two " secretaries," an

THE ROLTINE OF THE REPUBLIC.

236

and commercial agencies subordinate to him,
so far as that supervision can be exercised
by correspondence. At present, we have con-
sulates-general at .Vpia, Athens, Bangkok, Bel-
grade, Berlin, Berne, Bogota, Bucharest, Cairo,
Calcutta, Constantinople, Copenhagen, Frank-
fort-on-the-Main, Guatemala, Guayaquil, Hali-
fax, Havana, Honolulu, Kanagawa, La Paz,
Lisbon, London, Matamoros, Melbourne, Mex-
ico, Monrovia, Montreal, Ottawa, Panama,
Paris, Port-au-Prince, Rio de Janeiro, Rome,
Seoul, Shanghai, Saint Petersburg, Teheran, and
Vienna. But to locate all the other posts in
our consular system would be to send my read-
ers on a geographical hunt through the four
quarters of the globe. We have a consul at
Liverpool and another at Hong-Kong; consuls
at Belfast, Havre, Antwerp, Bremen, Munich,
Trieste, and Bagdad, — others at Rosario, Co-
quimbo, Helsingfors, Muscat, Gor^e-Dakar, Pa-
ramaribo, Tegucigalpa, and Padang. We have
commercial ageftts at Castelamare, Reichenberg,
and Butaritari, and also at Levuka, Boma, and
Gaboon. We have consular agents at Alexan-
dretta, Moulmein, Pago-pago, Arica, and Fiume,
at Dyrefjord and at Pugwash, at Lanzarote,
Laraiche, Terceira, Latakia, .\cajuila, and Wau-
baushene, at Akyab, Mansourah, Ritzebiittel,
Hodeida, Corcubion, Bucaramanga, Bani-saf,
Saffi, Scjerabaya, and Tai-wanfoo, to say noth-
ing of such places as Assioot, Bassein, Iloilo,
Llanelly, Rostoff, Majonga, Richibucto, and
Penang !

Great Britain has a consul-general residing
at New York, and consuls, vice-consuls, and
other consular officers at New York, Baltimore,
New Orleans, Boston, San Francisco, Galveston,
Richmond, Eastport, Chicago, St. Paul, Eureka,
Denver, San Diego, Mobile, and other places
within the United States. And at the same or
different American ports and inland cities, we
find consular officials of var)ing grades, in the
service of France, Germany, Russia, Turkey,
China, and other powers, including a consul-
general of the Orange Free States stationed at

Philadelphia and a consul of the principality of
Monaco located at New York.

Without attempting to go over, by name, the
various countries with whom we exchange diplo-
matic or consular officers, it may be said, gener-
ally, that the interests of the people of the United
States, as a j3olitical sovereignt)' and as individ-
uals, are represented, in one way or the other, at
all the principal capitals and trade centers of the
world, and that all the principal foreign states,
civilized, half-civilized, and barbaric, are repre-
sented here. The exchange, however, is not
entirely uniform or reciprocal. We send, for
instance, no diplomatic agent to the Barbary
States ; but our riglits are guarded by a consul
and a vice-consul at Tangiers, and by seven con-
sular agents at seven other towns within that
region. The Barbary States, on the other hand,
are not represented in the United States ; the
same is true of Madagascar, to whom we send
several consular officials, and of Egypt and Rou-
mania, to whom we send both diplomatic and
consular representatives. Bolivia, Honduras,
Liberia, Paraguay, Salvador, Santo Domingo,
Servia, Siam, and Uruguay have only consular
officials in the United States, whereas we have
both classes of representatives within those
realms. But these and other discrepancies may
be accounted for by the special political or busi-
ness relations of the countries involved. Canada,
of course, Uke other provinces of Great Britain,
looks to the Imperial Goxemment for the pro-
tection of her interests here; and while our
consular service stretches through British Amer-
ica, and British India, and AustraUa, and through
other parts of Britain's vast dependencies and
possessions, in the negotiation of treaties or set-
tlement of international conflicts relating to any
of those lands the diplomatic authorities at
\Vashington and London, representing the two
high sovereign states, alone have power to act.
And so in our intercourse with other communi-
ries and dominions, save where treaty provisions
or exceptional conditions may modify the gen-
eral rule.

(To be continued.)

THE DROP-KICK.

By W. T. Bull.

LTHOUGH numerous arti-
cles have been written on the
game of foot-ball, as played
at our colleges at the present
time, the subject has invari-
ably been treated generally,
and no one particular feature,
important as it may be, has ever been accorded
any special attention.

The drop-kick is, of all the different features,
by far the most important and telling factor,
when employed by an experienced player ; but
when attempted by a novice, it becomes at
once dangerous and demoralizing to the rest of
the players, to the rush line in particular.

The instances on record are numerous where
the drop-kick has saved the day, or, at. least,
contributed largely to victory. What better
proof of the above assertion could be had than
the story of the Yale-Harvard game played in
1880 at Cambridge? The score was a tie,
neither side having been able to secure the lead,
when, at the close of the last half, just a moment
before time was called, Mr. Camp secured a goal
from the field by means of the drop-kick. Will
the Yale team of '87 ever forget the assurance
and general " We-have-got-the-game-sure " man-
ner of the Harvard team as they disported
themselves on the eve of the great battle ? Can
they ever recall without shuddering how the
Harvard men came on the field that day, and,
with a manner confident in the extreme, forced
the Yale team into their own territory and in
close pro.ximity to their goal ? But how quickly
was the tide of battle changed, and this same
spirit of confidence broken, when a goal from
the field placed Yale in the lead by 5 points!
Harvard made but one rally after that, and the
effort was vain.

Other instances might be cited, as, for ex-
ample, when, in '84, Moffatt, of Princeton, kicked
a goal from nearly the center of the field, but

they would be mere repetitions, and it is inter-
esting to inquire more particularly into this most
efiicient factor.

In the first place, what is a drop-kick ? The
person making the try, drops the ball and kicks
it after, or at the very instant, it strikes the
ground. Simple as it seems, few people out-
side of immediate college circles could explain
it understandingly. This unfamiliarity with so
elementary a point is surprising in view of the
fact that foot-ball has become one of the most
popular of American games.

There are various ways of making the kick,
but they vary essentially in two particulars only :
the part of the foot used in kicking, and the

FlGLfRE I.

position which the ball is made to assume on
striking the ground. Of these different ways,
three have been chosen as having proved emi-

238

nently successful in championship games, and,
as able exponents of each, might be cited,
Camp of Yale, Moffatt of Princeton, and Wat-
kinson, now deceased, who was one of Yale's
famous players.

Camp's style of kick, as illustrated in Fig. i,
taken just before the ball is dropped, was to
hold the ball in the right hand, turn his left side
toward the goal, and, with a side swing of the
right foot, plant the toe on the middle seam of
the ball directly below the lacings. This style
of kick has its advantages in that a greater
swing of the leg can be attained, thus adding
greater force ; but the mere fact of his holding
the ball in one hand clearly shows, that, to be-
come accurate in this style, one would have to

THE DROP-KICK.

[Jan.

FIGURE 2.

devote more time and practice to this than to
the others, where the left hand aids to keep the
ball in the proper position.

Moffatt held the ball in two hands in front

of him, faced the goal, and dropped the ball
with the upper end canted toward him at an
angle, varying with the distance he intended
to cover. (Fig. 2.) This style is both sure and
quick, and diflers from Watkinson's style in one
point only — the ball as held by the latter being
canted in exacdy the opposite direction, and
pointed directly for the goal.

Watkinson's style, being much more famihar
to me, will be explained more in detail. The
ball is held in the fingers and thumb (both
extended) of the right hand, — as in Fig. 3, —
the left hand being placed on the upper and
left side of the ball. The ball being thus held,
the arms are extended fonvard and downward,
while the ball is pointed, or sighted as it were,
by the left hand. At the same time the trunk
of the body is bent slightly forward, and the
left leg is planted a little in advance of the
right, so that it sustains, to a great extent, the
weight of the body. The ball is then dropped,
and at the same instant the right leg is drawn
back, poised for one instant in the air, and then
brought with a steady swing forcibly forward,
meeting the ball at the moment it touches the
ground, the trunk of the body at the same time
being thrown back, turning on the hips, thus
adding greater force to the kick.

An example of kicking the ball with the side
of the foot is best illustrated by citing Terry of
Yale, who has a very novel way, quite his own,
that he has employed with success, when very
near the goal, about on the ten-yard line for
example. He takes a position, as in Fig. 4,
has the ball passed very low, receives it in his
hands, arms extended forward at full length,
and with a shoveling motion of the right foot,
which scrapes along the ground, he scoops up
(not kicks) the ball with the side of his foot.

A cool head, quickness in kicking the ball,
and dodging an opponent before kicking are
indispensable adjuncts to success. It is easy
to see, that for a man to stand facing eleven
opponents not twenty yards away, upon whose
faces are clearly portrayed a dogged determina-
tion either to block the ball or upset him,
must require a cool head and the power to con-
centrate all his thoughts and energies on the
ball about to be put in play. He can not do
two things at the same time. Watching the

THE DROP-KICK.

239

ball and the men too, generally results in an
ignominious muff, — a most dangerous accident,
for, with only one man to back him up, prac-
tically a clear field is left for the opposing side to

ens a man's natural ability to dodge. It very
often happens that his opponents reach him
just about the time the ball does, so that it is
quite necessary, before making the try, to dodge
one or more of them. This dodging before
kicking, of course, makes the kick more uncer-
tain. Yet a reasonable amount of accuracy
may be acquired by constant practice.

A player, who tries for goals from the field,
should combine three essential qualities : good
judgment as to the right rime to kick and the
distance to be covered, quickness in getting
the ball away after it has been received from
the quarter-back, and, finally, ability to dodge
an opponent before making the try. This last
point is quite necessary to success, for an oppo-
nent is pretty sure to get through, on one side
or the other, to intercept the kick. Therefore,
it is important, in practicing the drop-kick, to
have a man stand in front of the kicker, and,
as the kick is made, block it if possible. Within
the twenty-five-yard line where, in the man's
judgment, a try for goal would be the right play,
it is well to give the signal immediately after the
second down, and in two cases out of three,
unless tlie signal be known, the opponents will

score a brilliant run. The necessity of quick-
ness in kicking is aptly illustrated in the case of
a certain noted player. Probably there are few,
if any, players in the country, at the present
time, who would compare favorably with him
in a contest for accuracy and long-distance
kicking; with, however, the proviso that an
indefinite amount of time be allowed in which
to kick the ball. But, in a game, this remark-
able aptitude comes to naught ; and, without
disparagement to him, his non-success in games
should be attributed not to inability or igno-
rance, but to that most unfortunate of habits
into which players fall in pracrice, — taking
their time about kicking the ball. Surely, if a
man accustoms himself in daily pracrice to take
plenty of time to direct the ball, arrange or plant
himself, and watch his opponents at the same
rime, he can not expect to go into a game and
do exactly the opposite and srill hope for suc-
cess. Either his kick will be blocked, or the
ball will go wide of the mark. This bad habit
of taking so much unnecessary time also dead-

be taken unawares, will not be prepared for such
a play, and consequently will not be in a posi-
tion to prevent it. Thus the kicker has a free
field, and generally can take plenty of time to

THE DROP-KICK.

240

assure the proper accurac)- and success of the
kick. It is much the safer way to catch the ball
in the arms, rather than in the hands, unless
one has, by constant practice, acquired the lat-
ter method. Undoubtedly, from a scientific
standpoint, the latter is the better way, because
time is saved by it; a most important advantage,
for a ball received in the hands may be dropjied
immediately, but, being caught in the arms,
must be transferred to the hands first. Begin-
ners, therefore, would do well to learn to catch
in the hands. A very common mistake made
by players, who recei\e the ball direcdy in the
hands, is to shift their hands, and the ball too,
in the endeavor to get it in the proper position
for dropping. ."Ml this shifting is unnecessary,
and wastes valuable time, so that in two cases out
of three the outcome is that the ball is blocked.

A simjjle movement of the arms alone, and a
gentle turn of the ball in the right direction, as
it is dropped, is all that is required, and not an
instant of time is wasted. One great secret of
success is to droj) the ball in exactly the posi-
tion in wliich it is held by the hands. Both
hands should be taken from the ball at the same
time, for one can easily see that if either were
taken off first the ball would be likely to tij) to
one side and thus destroy the aim. The ball
should be kicked the instant it touches the
ground without waiting till it is in the air,
otherwise much of the force of the kick will be
lost.

By constant jjractice every man should be-
come able to use the left foot as well as the
right. Especially is ability to kick with either
foot necessary when very near the goal. Such
an attainment not only saves time by allowing the
use of the left foot for kicks on the left of the goal,
and vice versa, but it bothers the opponents.
For example, a right tackle breaks through,
and makes directly for the kicker. In this case
the use of the right foot enables a man to kick
without moving from his position, providing the
ball comes all right and in time ; but in the use
of the left foot, there is a possibility of kicking

direcdy into the tackle. Thus a man who
could use only his left foot would be forced to
dodge the tackle first, and thus in a measure
lose the accuracy of his aim, as well as valu-
able time.

The kicker should be the man to gi\e the
signal for the drop, and he should be careful
to give it before the team has lined-up, thus
affording each man plenty of time to think about
his special line of action, and enabling him to
act upon that line promptly. For example,
suppose the right half-back is to give the sig-
nal. In this case, the back takes a position a
little in the rear and to one side of him for the
purpose of dropping on the ball, should the pass
be a bad one, or be muffed, or the l)all be kicked
into an opponent. The left half-back goes up
into the rush line, and generally takes, as the
man for him to block, an opposing half-back,
or the quarter-back ; the quarter-back, after
passing the ball, takes the first man he sees
who has no one to oppose him. Generally this
man will be one of the backs, or the quarter-
back. But these different positions should never
be taken until the ball is snapped by the center,
otherwise the opponents will surely anticipate
the play about to be attempted, and i)robably
spoil it.

It should not be supposed for a moment,
however, that just because the signal for a kick
has been given, a man is in duty bound to make
the try, for oftentimes a rare opportunity will
offer itself for a run around the ends. Then,
too, the ball may come badly, the opponents be
too close, or a dozen other contingencies arise,
which forbid the kick. It is the abihty to judge
of all these circumstances that makes the suc-
cessful kicker, and the indifference to them the
unsuccessful one.

A man, then, who devotes his time and atten-
tion to the thorough master)- of drop-kicking,
becomes not only a sought-after player, but also
one who, more frequently than any other, has
at his very feet the opportunity of securing
victory for his side.

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

THIRD PAPER.

By Walter Camp.

THE FOOT-BALL TEAM STARTING FOR THE POLO GROUNDS.

If there be anything that might make a
momentary ripple upon the steady, resistless
stream of New York life it should certainly be
one of these foot-ball games. While there are
plenty of base-ball enthusiasts, they possess their
souls and their enthusiasm in patience before
they reach, and after they leave, the grounds.
But the collegian has no sense of repression,
and his enthusiasm annually stirs up the sober,
sedate dignity of Fifth Avenue from the Bruns-
wick to the Park. A few years ago the wise-
acres said : " No one will come to a game on
Thanksgiving Day. New Yorkers will never
give up their annual dinner for anything under
the sun." At the latest game played on that day
fifteen thousand people postponed their annual
dinner to see the Yale- Harvard match. Perhaps
nothing will better illustrate the pitch to which
the interest has attained than to take the ride
to the grounds, first with the spectators then
with the team. Coaches have been bringing
as high as a hundred and twenty-five dollars
apiece for the day, and even at that price are
Vol. XVII.— 28. 2-1

engaged weeks before the contest. Stages are
resorted to. The old 'bus appears in rejuven-
ated habiliments, bedecked with great streamers
of partisan colors, and freighted with the eager
sympathizers of the red or the blue. Long
before noon, tally-hos draw up before the up-
town hotels and are soon bearing jolly parties
out to the grounds, in order to make sure of
a place close to the ropes. The corridors of
the Fifth Avenue, Hoffman, and Windsor have
for twelve hours been crowded by college boys
eagerly discussing the prospects of the rival
teams. Any word from the fortunate ones who
are permitted to visit the teams is seized and
passed from mouth to mouth as eagerly as
if upon the outcome of the match hung the
fate of nations. The condition of Jones's ankle
is fraught with the utmost interest, and all the
boys heave sighs of relief at hearing that he will
be able to play.

Having talked over the state of affairs all the
evening, and until noon of the momentous day,
each boy is thoroughly primed to tell his sister

242

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

[Jan.

(and particularly his chum's sister) all about
every individual member of his own team, as
well as to throw in the latest gossip concerning
the opponents. He is frequently interrupted
in this conversation held on the top of the
coach, by the necessity of slopping to cheer
some house where his colors are displayed in
the windows, or to salute some passing tally-ho
from which the similarly colored ribbons dangle
and banners wave.

Arrived on the grounds, the coaches are

Having followed the spectators out, and seen
them safely and advantageously placed, let us
ride back and return with one of the teams. We
find the men (who have been confined all the
morning between four walls in order to prevent
their talking over the chances, and thus becom-
ing anxious and excited) just finishing their
luncheon. They eat but little, as, in spite of their
assumed coolness, there is no player who is not
more or less ner\'ous over the result. Hurriedly
leaving the table, they go to their rooms and put

THE POLO GROUNDS DURING A MATCH.

drawn up in line, and while an.xiously awaiting
the advent of the two teams, the appearance
of each crimson or blue flag becomes an excuse
for another three times three. And how smartly
the boys execute their cheers ! The Yale crj'
is sharper and more aggressive, but the Harvard
boys get more force and volume into theirs.
The fair faces of the girls are as flushed with
excitement as are those of the men, and their
hearts no less in the cheering.

on their uniforms. One after another they
assemble in the Captain's room, and, if one
might judge from the appearances of their can-
vas jackets and begrimed trousers, they are
not a set of men to fear a few tumbles. Finally
they all have appeared, the last stragglers still
engaged in lacing up their jackets. The Cap-
tain then says a few words of caution or encour-
agement to them, as he thinks best. He is evi-
dently in dead earnest, and so are they, for you

iSgo.;

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA

might hear a pin drop as he talks in a low voice
of the necessity of each man's rendering a good
account of himself. Thoughtfully they file out of
the room, troop dowTi the stairs, and out through
the side entrance where the coach is waiting
for them. Then the drive to the grounds, —
very different from the noisy, boisterous one
we have just taken with the admirers of these
same men. Hardly a word is spoken after
the first few moments, and one fairly feels the
atmosphere of determination settling down upon
them as they bowl along through the Park.
Every man has his own thoughts and keeps
them to himself, for they have long ago dis-
cussed their rivals, and each man has mentally
made a comparison between himself and the
man he is to face, until there is little left to
say. Now they leave the Park and rumble up
to the big north gate of the Polo Grounds. As
the\- crawl leisurely through the press of car-
riages, everything makes way for them, and the
people in line for tickets stare at the coach for a
glimpse of the players. They are soon in, and
jumping out at the dressing-rooms, run in and
throw off outside coats, still keeping on the
heavy sweaters. Now comes a slight uneasy
delay, as it is not yet quite time to go out on
the field lest their rivals keep them waiting there
too long in the chill air. This is in truth the
mauvais quart d'heure of the foot-ball player,
for the men's nerves are strung to a high pitch.
Perhaps some one begins to discuss a play or the
signals, and in a few minutes the players are in
a fair way to become thoroughly mixed, when
the Captain utters a brief but expressive, " Shut
up there, will you ? " and growls out something
about all knowing the signals well enough if
they '11 quit discussing them. A short silence
follows, and then they receive the word to come
out. As they approach the great black mass
of people and carriages surrounding the ground,
they feel the pleasant stimulus of the crisp fresh
air, and their hearts begin to swell within them
as they really scent the battle. Just as they
break through the crowd into the open field, a
tremendous cheer goes up from the throats of
their friends, and the eager desire seizes them
to dash in and perform some unusual deed of
skill and strength.

The Polo Grounds have fallen before the

243

advance of city streets. That old inclosure, the
scene of some most exciting college contests,
will never again resound with the mad cheer
of enthusiastic spectators, but there will be
handed down to boys coming after, the mem-
ory and stoiy of some grand old games, and
there will always be a touch in common among
the old players who saw service on those
grounds.

The Costume and Training.

The old-fashioned woolen jersey has given
place, in great measure, to the less comfortable
but more serviceable canvas jacket. This
change was first made by a team of Trinity
College, of Hartford. There had been a few
rumors afloat to the effect that there was a new
foot-ball garment, made of canvas, which ren-
dered it almost impossible to catch or hold the
wearer. No one at the other colleges had paid
much attention to
this report, and it
was not until the
Trinity team stepped
out of their dressing-
rooms at Hamilton
Park that the Yale
men first saw the
new canvas jackets.
Strange enough they
appeared in those
early days, too, as
the Trinity eleven
marched out on the
field in their white
jackets laced up in
front. It gave them
quite a military air,
for the jackets were
cut in the bobtail
fashion of the cadets.
The men in blue
looked contemptuously down upon the innova-
tion upon the regulation jersey, and it was not
until they had played for nearly half an hour, and
had had many Trinity players slip easily through
their fingers, that they were ready to admit that
there was some virtue in the jacket. The Trin-
ity men, bound to give the new costume a fair

COSTl-ME.

244

I.NTKRCOLLEGIATE I-OOT-BALL l.\ AMERICA.

Uan.

trial, had brought some grease out with them,
and each jacket had been thoroughly besmeared.
They were therefore as difficult to grasp as eels,
and it was not until the Vale men had counter-
acted tliis by grasping great handfuls of sand
that they were able to do anything like suc-
cessful tackling. This, then, was the beginning
of the canvas jacket, and although the greas-
ing process was not continued (in fact, it was
stopped by the insertion of a rule forbidding it),
the jacket itself was a true improvement, and it
was not long before all the teams were wearing
them. The superiority of the canvas jacket over
the jersey lies in the fact that it gives much less
hold for the fingers of the tackier, and also that
it does not keep stretching until it offers an easy
grasp, as does the jersey.

The next article of the foot-baller's costume
which demanded jjarticular attention was the
shoe. Probably, in spite of all the trials and
the great exercise of inventive faculty bestowed
upon the sole of a foot-ball man's shoe, there is
to-day no better device for all fields and all
weathers than the straight cross-leather strips
which were used in the first year of the sport.
They are shown in diagram I of the accom-
panying cut. One of the earliest plans was to
lay out these strips in various dift'erent lines
across the sole in order to j)resent an edge, no
matter in what direction the foot was turned.
This gave rise to as many styles as there were
men on a team. The cuts show a few of these
(diagrams II, III, IV).

Rubber soles were also tried, but they proved
heavy, and when the ground was wet they did
not catch as well as the leather strips. We have
not yet seen a trial made of the felt soles which
are now used in tennis, but these probably
would not answer for kicking, as they would
not be sufficiently stiff.

The trousers also have quite a historj-. At
first, several of the teams wore woven knicker-
bockers made of the same material as the
jersey. These fitted them tight to the skin,
and, although they ottered very little obstruction
to the freedom of a man's gait, they neither were
things of beauty nor did they prove much of a
joy to the wearers, for when a hole was once
started it spread most amazingly. Another
serious feature was that when a game was played

on frozen ground every tumble and slide left its
mark not only on the trousers, but also on the
j)layer's skin beneath, as these trunks offered
almost no protection. The ne.xt remove from
these " tights," as they were expressively called,
was to flannel knickerbockers. These prevailed
for a season, but they were not stout enough for
the rough work of the game, and many a youth
has needlessly enlisted the sympathy of the ten-
der hearts in the audience, when his comrades
gathered about him and bore him from the field,
only, however, to reappear again — such a plucky
young man ! — in a few moments. Some of the
more knowing ones noticed that the trousers worn
by the young man on his second apjjcarance were
not the same as those in which he began the
game. Corduroy was tried with no better re-
sults than flannel. The most approved cloth
now in use among the players is a sort of heavy
fustian, and even these are thickly padded at
the knees and along the sides of the thighs.

The caps ran through a series of changes from
a little skull-cap to the long-tasseled affair called
a toboggan toque. Tiie only really serviceable
innovation was a cap with a broad visor, to be
worn by the backs and half-backs when facing
the sun. The stockings are thicker than the)-
used to be, but otherwise there has been no
change. The foot-ball player of to-day puts on
a suit of flannels underneath his uniform, and if
his canvas jacket is a little loose or the day cold,
he wears a jersey next the jacket on the inside.

His shoes are of stout leather with straight
strips across the soles ; and, if they have become
a litde stretched from constant use, an extra pair

of socks underneath the woolen ones gives his
feet a more comfortable feeling.

He is better dressed to avoid bruises than the
old-time player, but the canvas jacket is hard to
play in, and such men as the quarter-back, who
have Httle opportunity to make runs but much

iSgo.]

INTERCOLLEGIATE FOOT-BALL IN AMERICA.

^45

stooping to do, still cling to the jersey. The
back also can dispense with the canvas jacket
if he finds it very irksome, but as a rule every
one but the quarter is better dressed for service
if in canvas rather than a jersey.

To come to the more
particular points of the
diet and exercise suitable
for a foot-ball player.
Long experience has
shown that men who are
training for this sport
must not be brought
down too fine. The}'
should be undertrained
rather than overtrained.
The reason for this is
that an overtrained man
becomes too delicate for
the rough, hard work

and percepribl)- loses his vigor after a few sharp
struggles. The season of the year is favorable
to good work, and it is not difficult to keep men
in shape. They should be given a hearty break-
fast of the regulation steaks, chops, stale bread ;
nor will a cup of coffee hurt a man who has always
been in the habit of having it. Fruit also can be
had in the early part of the season, and it is an
excellent thing to begin the breakfast. About
ten or eleven o'clock the men should practice for
a half hour or so. The rushers should be made
to pass the ball, fall on it when it is rolling
along the ground, catch short high kicks. They
should also be put through some of their plays
by signal. The half-backs and back practice
punting and drop-kicking, not failing to do some
place-kicking as well. The quarter-back should
pass the ball for them and also do some passing
on his own account in order to increase the ra-
jjidity of his throwing as well as the distance to
which he can pass the ball. The half-backs and
back should be made to take all the fly catching
they have time for, and it is best to have some
one running toward them while they are per-
forming the catch, that they may become ac-
customed to it. A very light lunch should be
served at about one o'clock. It should consist
of cold meats, toast, warm potatoes, eggs if
agreeable ; in fact, no great restriction should be

placed upon the appetite of the men at any of
the meals except where certain things manifestly
disagree wath certain individuals. Nothing very
hearty should be given them at noon, however.
At half-past two — or, better, at three — they

A TACKLE.

should Start for the grounds and then play
against a scrub team for an hour and a half.
When they have had their baths, and been well
rubbed down, it is about five o'clock, and in an
hour from that time they will eat more dinner
than any other set of men in training. No al-
coholic beverages are permissible except for par-
ticular cases, as, for a man who is getting too
" fine " a little ale is not out of the way and
may give him a better appetite and better night's
rest. Plenty of sleep is indispensable. One
other feature should be mentioned, which is,
that as the rule for foot-ball games is " play,
rain or shine," a team must practice in bad
weather. Notwithstanding the fact that one
would naturally predict colds for the men from
practice in the rain, experience teaches quite
the opposite. A cold is almost unheard of, and
when it does occur is always traceable directly
to some foolish exposure after the playing is
over ; as, for instance, remaining in the wet
clothes. This must on no account be allowed.
If the men are put into their baths, and dressed
immediately after in warm, dry clothes, they
will never take cold.

These above points are the vital ones in the
foot-ball training and give a general \iew of the
course to be pursued. The smaller technicali-
ties every captain must discover for himself

( To he couliuHcd.)

"%-

'f:^N^

■w

^- — - -

K r i stnm^^^'^tKePo 1 1 y .

■.\ii

By Grack F. Coolidge

k'as the good ship " Polly," and
,^^ she sailed the wintry sea,

For ships must sail tho' fierce the gale,
and a jjrccious freight had she ;
'T was the captain's little daughter stood

beside her father's chair,
Anil illumed the dingy cabin with the sun-
shine of her hair.

With a yo-hcave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho .'

For ships must sail

Tho' fierce the gale
And loud the tempests blow.

\nd make belie\e the stove-pipe is a chim-
ney— just for me ? "

Loud laughed the jovial captain, and " By my

faith," he cried,
If he should come we '11 let him know he has

a friend inside ! "
And many a rugged sailor cast a loving glance

that night

The captain's fingers rested on the pretty,

curly head.
" To-morrow will be Christmas-day," the

little maiden said ;
" Do you suppose that Santa Claus will find

us on the sea,

=46

At the stove-pipe where a lonely little
stockinE! fluttered white.

CHRISTMAS ON THE " POLLY.

247

IVi/ha yo-heave-ho, ami ayo-Jicai'e-ho!

For ships must sail

Tho' fierce the gale
And loud the tempests blo7v.

On the good ship " Polly " the Christmas

sun looked down,
And on a smiling Uttle face beneath a

golden crown.
No happier child he saw that day, on

sea or on the land,
Than the captain's litde daughter with

her treasures in her hand.

For never was a stocking so filled with curious

things !
There were bracelets made of pretty shells,

and rosy coral strings ;
An elephant carved deftly from a bit of ivory

tusk;
A fan, an alligator's tooth, and a little bag of

musk.

Not a tar aboard the " Polly " but felt the

Christmas cheer,
For the captain's little daughter was to every

sailor dear.
They heard a Christmas carol in the shrieking

wintry gust,
For a little child had touched them by her

simple, loving trust.

With a yo-heave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho!

For ships must sail

Tho' fierce the gale
And loud the tempests blotc.

CROWDED OUT O" CROFIELD.

Bv William O. Stoddard.

■<:-T-i'iii

THE RUNAWAY. **THE WAGON TILTED FBARFUULV, AND THE NIGH WHEEL WAS IN THE AIR FOR A MOMENT, trNTIL
jack's WEIGHT HELPED BRING IT DOWN AGAIN."

Chapter I.

" I 'm going to the city ! "

He stood in the wide door of the blacksmith-
shop, with his hands in his pockets, looking
down the street, toward the rickety old bridge
over the Cocahutchie. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled-faced boy, and if he was really only
about fifteen, he was tall for his age. Across
the top of the door, over his head, stretched
a cracked and faded sign, with a horseshoe
painted on one end and a hammer on the other,
and the name "John Ogden," almost faded out,
between them.

The blacksmith-shop wa,s a great, ru.sty, grimy
clutter of work-benches, vises, tools, iron in bars
and rods, and all sorts of old iron scraps and
things that looked as if they needed making over.

The forge was in the middle, on one side,
and near it was hitched a horse, pawing the
ground with a hoof that bore a new shoe. On
the anvil was a brilliant, yellow-red loop of iron,
that was not quite yet a new shoe, and it was
sending out bright sparks as a hammer fell upon
it, — " thud, thud, thud," and a clatter. Over
the anvil leaned a tall, muscular, dark-haired,
grimy man. His face wore a disturbed and
anxious look, and it was covered with charcoal
dust. There was altogether too much charcoal
along the high bridge of his Roman nose and
over his jutting eyebrows.

The boy in the door also had some charcoal
on his cheeks and forehead, but none upon his
nose. His nose was not precisely like the black-
smith's. It was high and Roman half-way
down, but just there was a little dent, and the

--4S

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

249

rest of the nose was straight. His complexion,
excepting the freckles and charcoal, was chiefly
sunburn, down to the neckband of his blue
checked shirt. He was a tough, wiry-looking
boy, and there was a kind of smiling, self-conii-
dent expression in his blue-gray eyes and around
his firm mouth.

" I 'm going to the city!" he said, again, in a
low but positive voice. '• I '11 get there, some-
how."

Just then a short, thick-set man came hurry-
ing past him, into the shop. He was probably
the whitest man going into that or any other
shop, and he spoke out, at once, very fast, but
with a voice that sounded as if it came through
a bag of meal.

" Ogden," said he, " got him shod ? If you
have, I '11 take him. What do you say about
that trade ? "

" I don't want any more room than there is
here," said the blacksmith, " and I don't care
to move my shop."

" There 's nigh onto two acres, mebbe more,
all along the creek from below the mill to Dea-
con Hawkins's line, below the bridge," wheezed
the mealy, floury, dusty man, rapidly. " I '11
get two hundred for it some day, ground or no
ground. Best place for a shop."

" This lot suits me," said the smith, hammer-
ing away. " 'T would n't pay me to move, — not
in these times."

The miller had more to say, while he un-
hitched his horse, but he led him out without
getting any more favorable reply about the
trade.

" Come and blow, Jack," said the smith, and
the boy in the door turned promptly to take the
handle of the bellows.

The little heap of charcoal and coke in the
forge brightened and sent up fiery tongues, as
the great leathern lungs wheezed and sighed,
and Jack himself began to puff.

" I 've got to have a bigger man than you
are, for a blower and striker," said the smith.
" He 's coming Monday morning. It 's time
you were doing something, Jack."

" Why, father," said Jack, as he ceased pulling

on the bellows, and the shoe came out of the

fire, " I 've been doing something ever since

I was twelve. Been working here since May,

Vol. XVII.— 29.

and lots o' times before that. Learned the
trade, too."

"You can make a nail, but you can't make a
shoe," said his father, as he sizzed the bit of bent
iron in the water-tub and then threw it on the
ground. " Seven. That 's all the shoes I '11 make
this morning, and there are seven of you at home.
Your mother can't spare Molly, but you '11 have
to do something. It is Saturday, and you can
go fishing, after dinner, if you 'd like to. There
's nothin' to ketch 'round here, either. Worst
times there ever were in Crofield."

There was gloom as well as charcoal on the
face of the blacksmith, but Jack's expression
was only respectfully serious as he walked
away, without speaking, and again stood in the
door for a moment.

" I could catch something in the city. I know
I could," he said, to himself " How on earth
shall I get there ? "

The bridge, at the lower end of the sloping
side-street on which the shop stood, was long
and high. It was made to fit the road and was
a number of sizes too large for the stream of
water rippling under it. The side-street climbed
about twenty rods the other way into what was
evidently the Main street of Crofield. There
was a tavern on one corner, and across the street
from that there was a drug store and in it was the
post-ofiice. On the two opposite comers were
shops, and all along the Main street were all sorts
of business establishments, sandwiched in among
the dwellings.

It was not yet noon, but Crofield had a
sleepy look, as if all its work for the whole week
were done. Even the horses of the farmers'
teams, hitched in front of the stores, looked
sleepy. Jack Ogden took his longest look, this
time, at a neat, white-painted frame-house across
the way.

" Seems to me there is n't nearly so much
room in it as there used to be," he said to him-
self 'Tt 's just packed and crowded. I 'm
going ! "

He turned and walked on up toward Main
street, as if that were the be.st thing he could
do till dinner time. Not many minutes later,
a girl plainly but neatly dressed came slowly
along in front of the village green, away up
Main street. She was tall and slender, and her

250

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

[Jan.

hair and eyes were as dark as those of John
Ogden, the blacksmith. Her nose was like
his, too, except that it was finer and not so
high, and she wore very much the same
anxious, discontented look upon her face.
She was walking slowly, because she saw, com-
ing toward her, a portly lady, with hair so flaxy
that no gray would show in it. She was ele-
gantly dressed. She stopped and smiled and
looked very condescending.

" Good-moming, Mary Ogden," she said.

" Good-morning, Miss Ghdden," said Mary,
the anxious look in her eyes changing to a
gleam that made them seem very wide awake.

" It 's a fine morning, Mary Ogden, but so
very warm. Is your mother well ? "

" Very well, thank you," said Mary.

"And is your aunt well, — and your father,
and all the children ? I 'm so glad they 're well.
Elder Holloway 's to be here to-morrow. Hope
you '11 all come. I shall be there myself.
You 've had my class a number of times. Much
obliged to you. I '11 be there to-morrow. You
must hear the Elder. He 's to inspect the Sun-
day-school."

" Your class. Miss Glidden ? " began Mary ;
and her face suggested that somebody was
blowing upon a kind of fire, inside her
cheeks, and that they would be very red in
a minute.

" Yes ; don't fail to be there to-morrow, Mary.
The choir '11 be full, of course. I shall be there
myself."

" I hope you wUl, Miss Glidden — "

The portly lady saw something up the street,
at that moment.

" Oh my ! What is it ? Dear me ! It 's com-
ing ! Run ! We '11 all be killed ! Oh my ! "

She had turned quite around, while she was
speaking, and was once more looking up the
street; but the dark-haired girl had neither
flinched nor wavered. She had only sent a
curious, inquiring glance, in the direction of the
shouts and the rattle and the cloud of dust that
were coming swiftly toward them.

" A runaway team," she said, quietly. " No-
body 's in the wagon."

" Dear me ! " exclaimed Miss GUdden ; but
Mary began to move away, looking not at her
but at the runaway, and she did not hear the

rest. " Mary Ogden 's too uppish. — Somebody
'11 be killed, I know they will! — She 's got to be
taken down. — There they come ! — Dressed too
well for a blacksmith's daughter. Does n't know
her place. — Oh dear ! I 'm so frightened ! "

Perhaps she had been wise in getting behind
the nearest tree. It was a young maple, two
inches through, lately set out, but it might have
stopped a pair of very small horses. Those in the
road were large — almost too large to run well.
They were well-matched grays, and they came
thundering along in a way that was really fine
to behold; heads down, necks arched, nostrils
wide, reins flying, the wagon behind them bang-
ing and swerving — no wonder everybody stood
still and, except Mary Ogden, shouted, " Stop
'em ! " One young fellow, across the street,
stood still only until the runaways were all but
close by him. Then he darted out into the
street, not ahead of them but behind them. No
man on earth could have stopped those horses
by standing in front of them. They could
have charged through a regiment. Their
heavy, furious gallop was fast, too, and the
boy who was now following them must have
been as Ught of foot as a young deer.

" Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Go it. Jack ! Catch
'em ! Bully for you ! " arose from a score of
people along the sidewalk, as he bounded
forward.

" It 's Jack ! Oh dear me ! But it 's just hke
him ! There ! He 's in ! " exclaimed Mary
Ogden, her dark eyes dancing proudly.

" Why, it 's that good-for-nothing brother
of Mary Ogden. He 's the blacksmith's boy.
I 'm afraid he will be hurt," remarked Miss
Ghdden, kindly and benevolently; but all the
rest shouted " Hurrah ! " again.

Fierce was the strain upon the young runner,
for a moment, and then his hands were on the
back-board of the bouncing wagon. A tug, a
spring, a swerve of the wagon, and Jack Ogden
was in it, and in a second more the loosely fly-
ing reins were in his hands.

The strong arms of his father, were they t\vice
as strong, could not at once have pulled in those
horses, and one man on the sidewalk seemed
to be entirely correct, when he said, " He 's a
plucky little fellow, but he can't do a thing, now
he 's there."

I Soft. I

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

251

His sister was trembling all over, but she was
repeating : " He did it splendidly ! He can do
anything ! "

Jack, in the wagon, was thinking only : " I
know 'em. They 're old Hammond's team.
They '11 try to go home to the mill. They '11
smash everything, if I don't look out!"

It is something, even to a greatly frightened
horse, to feel a hand on the rein. The team in-
tended to turn out of Main street, at the comer,
and they made the turn, but they did not crash
the wagon to pieces against the comer post,
because of the desperate guiding that was done
by Jack. The wagon swung around without
upsetting. It tilted fearfully, and the nigh
wheel was in the air for a moment, until Jack's
weight helped bring it down again. There was a
short sharp scream across the street, when the
wagon swung and the wheel went up.

Down the slope toward the bridge thundered
the galloping team, and the blacksmith ran out
of his shop to see it pass.

" Turn them into the creek, Jack ! " he shouted,
but there was no time for any answer.

" They 'd smash through the bridge," thought
Jack. " I know what I 'm about."

There were wheel-marks down from the
street, at the left of the bridge, where many a
team had descended to drink the water of the
Cocahutchie, but it required all Jack's strength
on one rein to make his runaways take that
direction. They had thought of going toward
the mill, but they knew the watering-place.

Not many rods below the bridge stood a
clump of half a dozen gigantic trees, remnants
of the old forest which had been replaced by
the streets of Crofield and the farms around it.
Jack's pull on the left rein was obeyed only too
well, and it looked, for some seconds, as if the
plunging beasts were about to wind up their
maddened dash by a wreck among those gnarled
trunks and projecting roots. Jack drew his
breath hard, and there was almost a chill at his
young heart, but he held hard and said nothing.

Forward, — one plunge more, — hard on the
right rein —

" That was close!" he said. " If we did n't
go right between the big maple and the cherry !
Now I 've got 'em ! "

Splash, crash, rattle ! Spattering and plung-

ing, but coohng fast, the gray team galloped
along the shallow bed of the Cocahutchie.

" I wish the old swimming-hole was deeper,"
said Jack, "but the water 's very low. Whoa,
boys ! Whoa, there ! Almost up to the hub —
over the hub ! Whoa, now ! "

And the gray team ceased its plunging and
stood still in water three feet deep.

" I must n't let 'em drink too much," said
Jack; "but a little won't hurt 'em."

The horses were trembling all over, but one
after the other they put their noses into the
water, and then raised their heads to prick their
ears back and forth and look around.

" Don't bring 'em ashore till they 're quiet,
Jack," called out the deep, ringing voice of his
father, from the bank.

There he stood, and other men were coming,
on the run. The tall blacksmith's black eyes
were flashing with pride over the daring feat his
son had performed.

" I dare n't tell him, though," he said to
himself " He 's set up enough, a'ready. He
thinks he can do 'most anything."

" Jack," wheezed a mealy voice at his side,
" that 's my team — "

" I know it," said Jack. " They 're all right
now. Pretty close shave through the trees,
that was!"

" I owe ye fifty dollars for a-savin' them and
the wagin," said the miller. "It 's wuth it,
and I '11 pay it ; but I 've got to owe it to ye,
jest now. Times are awful hard in Crofield.
If I 'd ha' lost them bosses and that wagin — "

He stopped short, as if he could not exactly
say how disastrous it would have been for him.

There was a running fire of praise and of
questions poured at Jack, by the gathering knot
of people on the shore, and it was several min-
utes before his father spoke again.

" They 're cool, now," he said. " Turn 'em,
Jack, and walk 'em out by the bridge, and up to
the mill. Then come home to dinner."

Jack pretended not to see quite a different
kind of group gathered under the clump of tall
trees. Not a voice had come to him from that
group of lookers-on, and yet the fact that they
were there made him tingle all over.

Two large, freckle-faced, sandy-haired women
were hugging each other, and wiping their eyes ;

2t2

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

IJAN.

and a very small girl was tugging at their dresses
and crying, while a pair of girls of from twelve
to fourteen, close by them, seemed very much
inclined to dance. Two small boys, who at first
belonged to the party, had quickly rolled up
their trousers and waded out as far as they
could into the Cocahutchie. Just in front of
the group, under the trees, stood Mary Ogden,
straight as an arrow, her dark eyes flashing and
her cheeks glowing while she looked silently
at the boy on the wagon in the stream, until she
saw him wheel the grays. Even then she did
not say anything, but turned and walked away.
It was as if she had so much to say that she
felt she could not say it.

" Aunt Melinda ! Mother ! " said one of the
girls, "Jack is n't hurt a mite. They 'd all
ha' been drowned, though, if there was water
enough."

" Hush, Bessie," said one of the large women,
and the other at once echoed, " Hush, Bessie."

They were very nearly alike, these women,
and they both had long, straight noses, such as
Jack's would have been, if half-way down it
had not been Roman, like his father's.

" Mary Ann," said the first woman, " we
must n't say too much to him about it. He
can only just be held in, now."

" Hush, Melinda," said Jack's mother. " I
thought 1 'd seen the last of him when the
gray critters came a-powderin' down the road
past the house" — and then she wiped her eyes
again, and so did Aunt Melinda, and they both
stooped down at the same moment, saying,
"Jack 's safe, Sally," and picked up the small
girl, who was crying, and kissed her.

The gray team was surrendered to its owner
as soon as it reached the road at the foot of the
bridge, and again Jack was loudly praised by the
miller. The rest of the Ogden family seemed to
be disposed to keep away, but the tall black-
smith himself was there.

" Jack," said he, as they turned away home-
ward, " you can go fishing this afternoon, just
as I said. I was thinking of your doing some-
tliing else aftervvard, but you 've done about
enough for one day."

He had more to say, concerning what would
have happened to the miller's horses, and the
number of pieces the wagon would have been

knocked into, but for the manner in which the
whole team had been saved.

When they reached the house the front door
was open, but nobody was to be seen. Bob
and Jim, the two small boys, had not yet
returned from seeing the gray span taken to
tlie mill, and the women and girls had gone
through to the kitchen.

"Jack," said his father, as they went in, "old
Hammond '11 owe you that fifty dollars long
enough. He never really pays anything."

" Course he does n't — not if he can help it,"
said Jack. " I worked for him three months,
and you know we had to take it out in feed.
I learned the mill trade, though, and that
was something."

Just then he was suddenly embarrassed. Mrs.
Ogden had gone through the house and out at
the back door, and Aunt Melinda had followed
her, and so had the girls. Molly had suddenly
gone upstairs to her own room. Aunt Melinda
had taken everything off the kitchen stove and
put everything back again, and here now was
Mrs. Ogden back again, hugging her son.

"Jack," she said, "don't you ever, ever, do
such a thing again. You might ha' been knocked
into slivers ! "

Molly had gone up the back stairs only to
come down the front way, and she was now a
httle behind them.

" Mother ! " she e.\claimed, as if her pent-up
admiration for her brother was exploding,
" you ought to have seen him jump in, and
you ought to have seen that wagon go around
the comer ! "

"Jack," broke in the half-choked voice of
.\unt Melinda from the kitchen doorway,
" come and eat something. I felt as if I knew
you were killed, sure. If you have n't earned
your dinner, nobody has."

"Why, I know how to drive," said Jack.
" I was n't afraid of 'em after I got hold of the
reins."

He seemed even in a hurry to get through his
dinner, and some minutes later he was out in the
garden, digging for bait. The rest of the family
remained at the table longer than usual, espe-
cially Bob and Jim ; but, for some reason known
to herself, Marj- did not say a word about her
meeting with Miss Glidden. Perhaps the miller's

1890.]

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

253

gray team had run away with all her interest in
that, but she did not even tell how carefully
Miss Glidden had inquired after the family.

'• There goes Jack," she said, at last, and they
all turned to look.

He did not say anything as he passed the
kitchen door, but he had his long cane fishing-
pole over his shoulder. It had a Une wound
around it, ready for use. He went out of the
gate and down the road toward the bridge, and
gave only a glance across at the shop.

" I did n't get many worms," he said to him-
self, at the bridge, " but I can dig some more,
if the fish bite. Sometimes they do, and some-
times they don't."

Over the bridge he went, and up a wagon
track on the opposite bank, but he paused for
one moment, in the ver)' middle of the bridge,
to look upstream.

" There 's just enough water to run the mill,"
he said. " There is n't any coming over the
dam. The pond 's even full, though, and it
may be a good day for fish. — I wish I was in
the city ! "

Chapter II.

LL Saturday afternoon was
before Jack Ogden,
when he came out
at the water's edge,
near the dam, across
from the mill. That
was there, big
and red and
rusty-looking;
and the dam was
there; and above
them was the
mill - pond,
spreading out
over a number
of acres, and ornamented with stumps, old
logs, pond-lilies, and weeds. It was a fairly
good pond, the best that Cocahutchie Creek
could do for Crofield, but Jack's face fell a little
as he looked at it.

" There are more fellows than fish here," he
said to himself, with an air of disgust.

There was a boy at the end of the dam near
Irim, and a boy in the middle of it, and two boys

at the flume, near the mill. There were tliree
punts out on the water, and one of them had
in it a man and two boys, while the second boat
held but one man, and the third contained four.
A big stump near the north shore supported a
boy, and the old snag jutting out from the south
shore held a boy and a man.

There they all were, sitting perfectly still,
until, one after another, each rod and line came
up to have its hook and bait examined, to see
whether or not there had really been a bite.

" I 'm fairly crowded out," remarked Jack.
" Those fellows have all the good places. I '11
have to go somewhere else ; where '11 I go ? "

He studied that problem for a full minute,
while every fisherman there turned to look at
him and then turned back to watch his line.

" I guess I '11 tr)' down stream," said Jack.
" Nobody ever caught anything down there, and
nobody ever goes there, but I s'pose I might as
well try it, just for once."

He turned away along the track over which
he had come. He did not pause at the road
and bridge, but went on down the further bank
of the Cocahutchie. It was a pretty stream
of water, and it spread out wide and shallow,
and rippled merrily among stones and boulders
and clumps of \\-illow and alder for nearly
half a mile. Gradually, then, it grew narrower,
quieter, deeper, and wore a sleepy look which
made it seem more in keeping with quiet old
Crofield.

'• The hay 's about ready to cut," said Jack,
as he plodded along the path, near the water's
edge, through a thriving meadow of clover
and timothy. "There 's always plenty of work
in haying time. Hullo! What grasshoppers!
Jingo!"

As he made the last exclamation, he clapped
his hand upon his trousers-pocket.

" If I did n't forget to go in and get my
sinker ! Never did such a thing before in all my
life. What 's the use of trying to fish without a
sinker ? "

The luck seemed to be going directly against
him. Even the Cocahutchie, at his left, had
dwindled to a mere crack between bushes and
high grass, as if to show that it had no room to
let for fish to live in — that is, for fish accus-
tomed to having plenty of room, such as they

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

could find when living in a mill-pond, lined
around the edges with boys and fish-poles.

" That 's a whopper ! " suddenly exclaimed
Jack, with a quick snatch at something that
alighted upon his left arm. " I 've caught him !
Grasshoppers are the best kind of bait, too. 1 '11
try him on, sinker or no sinker. Hope there are
some fish, down here."

The line he unwound from his rod was some-
what coarse, but it was strong, and so was his
hook, as if the fishing around Crofield called for
stout tackle as well as for a large number of
sportsmen. The big, long-limbed, green-coated
jumper was placed in position on the hook, and
then, with several more grumbhng regrets over
the absence of any sinker. Jack searched along
the bank for a place whence he could throw his
bait into the water.

" This '11 do," he said, at last, and the breeze
helped him to swing out his Ime until the grass-
hopper at the end of it dropped lightly and
naturally into a dark little eddy, almost across
that narrow ribbon of the Cocahutchie.

Splash, — tug, — splash again, —

"Jingo! What's that? 1 declare — if he is n't
pulling! He '11 break the line, — no, he won't.
See that pole bend ! Steady, — here he comes.
Hurrah ! "

Out he came, indeed, for the rude, strong
tackle held, even against the game struggling
of that vigorous trout. There he lay now, on
the grass, with Jack Ogden bending over him
in a fever of exultation and amazement.

" I never could have caught him with a worm
and a sinker," he said, aloud. " This is the way
to catch 'em. Is n't he a big fellow ! I '11 try
some more grasshoppers."

There was not likely to be another two-pound
brook-trout very near the hole out of which that
one had been pulled. There would not have
been any at all, perhaps, but for the prevail-
ing superstition that there were no fish there.
Everybody knew that there were bullheads, suck-
ers, perch, and " pumpkin-seeds," in the mill-
pond, and eels, with now and then a pickerel,
but the trout were a profound secret. It was
easy to catch another big grasshopper, but the
young sportsman knew very well that he knew
nothing at all of that kind of fishing. He had
made his first cast perfectly, because it was

[JAH.

about the only way in which it could have been
made, and now he was so very nervous and ex-
cited and cautious that he did very well again,
aided as before by the breeze. Not in the same
place, but at a little distance down, and close to
where Jack captured his second bait, there was
a crook in the Cocahutchie, with a steep, over-
hanging, bushy bank. Into the glassy shadow
under that bank the sinkerless line carried and
dropped its h'ttle green prisoner, and there was
a hungry fellow in there, waiting for foohsh grass-
hoppers in the meadow to spring too far and
come down upon the water instead of upon the
grass. As the grasshopper alighted on the water,
there was a rush, a plunge, a strong hard pull,
and then Jack Ogden said to him.self :

" I 've heard how they do it. They wait and
tire 'em out. I won't be in too much of a hurry.
He '11 get away if I am."

That is probably what the fish would have
done, for he was a fish with what army men
call "tactics." He was able to pull very hard,
and he was also wise enough to rush in under
the bank and to sulkily stay there.

" Feels as if I 'd hooked a snag," said Jack.
" Maybe I 've lost the fish and he 's hitched me
into a 'cod-lamper' eel of some kind. Steady, —
no, I must n't pull harder than the fish."

He was breathless, but not with any exertion
that he was making. His hat fell oft' upon the
grass, as he leaned forward through the alder
bushes, and his sandy hair was tangled, for a
moment, in some stubby twigs. He loosened
his head, snll holding firmly his bent and strain-
ing rod. One step farther, a slip of his left foot,
an unsuccessful grasp at a bush, and then Jack
went over and down into a pool deeper than he
had thought the Cocahutchie afforded so near
Crofield.

There was a very fine splash, as the grass-
hopper fly-fisherman went under, and there was
a coughing and spluttering a moment afterward,
when his eager, excited, anxious face came up
again. He could swim extremely well, and he
was not thinking of his ducking, — only of his
game.

" I hope I have n't lost him ! " he exclaimed,
as he tried to pull upon the line.

It did not tug at all, just then, for the fish
on the hook had been rudely startled out firom

CROWDED OUT O CROFIELD.

255

under the bank and was on his way up the
Cocahutchie, with the hook in his mouth.

" There he is ! I 've got him yet ! Glad I
can swim — " cried Jack; and it did seem as
if he and this fish were very well matched,
except that Jack had to give one of his hands
to the rod while his captive could use every fin.

Down-stream floated Jack, passing the rod
back through his hands until he could grasp the
line, and all the while the fish was darting madly
about to get away.

" There, I 've touched bottom. Now for
him ! Here he comes. I '11 draw him ashore
easy, — that 's it ! Hurrah ! — biggest fish ever
was caught in the Cocahutchie ! "

That might or might not be so, but Jack
Ogden had a three-pound trout, flopping angrily
upon the grass at his feet.

" I know how to do it now," he almost shouted.
" I can catch 'em ! I won't let anybody else
know how it 's done, either."

He had learned something, no doubt, but he
had not learned how to make a large fish out
of a small one. All the rest of that afternoon

(To be con.

he caught grasshoppers and cast them daintily
into what seemed to be good places, but he did
not have another occasion to tumble in. When
at last he was tired out and decided to go home,
he had a dozen more of trout, not one of them
weighing over six ounces, with a pair of very
good yellow perch, one very large perch, a
sucker, and three bullheads, that bit when his
bait happened to sink to the bottom without
any lead to help it. Take it all in all, it was a
great string of fish, to be caught in a Saturday
afternoon, when all that the Crofield sportsmen
around the mill-pond could show was six bull-
heads, a dozen small perch, a lot of " pumpkin-
seeds " not much larger than dollars, five small
eels, and a very vicious snapping-turtle.

Jack stood for a moment looking down at
the results of his experiment in fly-fishing. He
felt, really, as if he could not more than half
believe it.

" Fishing does n't pay," he said. " It does n't
pay cash, anyway. There is n't anything around
Crofield that does pay. Well, it must be time
for me to go home."

iinued. )

DESIGN FOR DECORATION OF WINDOW — SUGGESTED UNCONSCIOUS1.Y BY MESSRS. WILLIE, DAnv,
FRANCIS, PERCY, AND JACK.

PILOT-BOAT "TORCHING" BY NIGHT.

Bv J. O. Davidson.

To the mariner inward bound from a long
voyage, few sights are more welcome than the
first view of the pilot-boat. Whether she be
met in fair summer weather, or in a winter's snow-
storm or bliz/.ard ; within sight of land, or far out
on the restless ocean, she is a welcome, a sign of
rest, of good fellowship, and good cheer. To
the passenger in pursuit of business, pleasure,
or health, she is a landmark or mile-post, so to
speak, on his way. To the tired sailor she prom-
ises rest from heavy labors, an easy berth, and
pay-day. To the captain she signifies relief
from anxious duty, for, with the good pilot on
board, he is relieved from further guidance, and
is practically at his voyage's end — moored to his
dock, and shaking hands with the shi|)'s owners
over the safe ending of a happy voyage.

The New York and New Jersey pilots are a
set of hardy and reliable men, inured to hard-
ship and responsibility, for tlieir training is a
long and severe one. Many of them are brought
up on or near the harbors in which they after-
ward ply their trade, and the knowledge acquired
as boys, while cruising in familiar home waters,
stands them in good stead in after years.

The first pilots of New York harbor were
stationed at Sandy Hook, and \-isited incoming
vessels in whale-boats ; and many a stately Brit-
ish frigate or colonial trader was forced to wait
anxiously outside the bar, rolling and tossing in
the sea-way, or tacking hither and yon, waiting
for a glimpse of that tiny speck where flashing
oars told of the coming pilot. It is in this way
many vessels are still met, off some of our
smaller harbors, and at the Port Eads Jetties
(those wonderful improvements of na\ngation at
the mouth of the Mississippi River) this practice
also remains. There the waters of the great river
pouring into the Gulf of Mexico make a turbu-
lent swell with foam-crested billows that roll the
stoutest ship's gunwale under, even in calm
weather; yet the little whale-boats, swift and
buoyant, dash out bravely in a race for the sail

on the distant horizon, for there are two pilot-
stations at the Jetties, and it is " first come first
engaged." There are plenty of tugs and small
steamers there also, but the whale-boat is still
used as easiest to handle and to embark from.

On our own northern coasts, the long icy
storms in winter, demand a strong

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